


Lessons

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Control Issues, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mind Control, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chip doesn't just bring pain, and pleasure is far, far more addictive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He wondered how they could have been so naive. Even vampires knew that there had to be a reward.  There had to be something to balance against the pain, otherwise the result was madness—just madness.

Weeks, it had been, handed off between the Watcher and the Harris git before finally being  _granted_  permission to live on his own again.  It was reluctant permission at best, since wherever he went, those bloody children always seemed to find him and interfered with the life he was slowly trying to build for himself.  Granted, since his attempts at earning his own dosh were pathetically unsuccessful, that was probably a good thing.  There was always some job they needed done, some bit of information they’d pay him for.  Wasn’t much, but it got him blood.

And alcohol.

It was amazing how often bodies bumped each other, stepped, kicked, brushed, pushed, anything’ed each other.  Spike knew it, now, thanks to the jolt of warning pain he received every time some mindless moron got in his way.  It never mattered what his intent was, trial and error experimentation had proven.  It was dependent on what the  _human_  felt—if there was pain, no matter how minor, the chip went off.

He should have know there was more to it than that.

He’d found himself a crypt, slowly dressing it up to make it halfway livable, but he spent most of his time drinking.  A human bar on the outskirts of town, serving to the rougher element, didn’t question his sporadic payments or his desire for a bottle and a corner to drink it in.  He spent most nights there, frittering away what little blood-money he had on an unending supply of bottles.

His goal was the reach that one moment, that  _special_  moment where liquid oblivion was reached—and he could forget, even for an instant, everything that had followed the cursed day he’d arrived in this little burg.

He hadn’t gotten there yet.  That was okay—he just needed to drink more.

The rest of the bar learned not to bother him.  He never  _touched_  the unwelcome visitors, no matter what they were after, but glowing eyes, misshapen features and long, sharp teeth were sufficient to scare most people off.  Spike was just glad the chip was limited to actual human contact and not some bolloxy mess about intent or motivation.  He could still change his face with ease, one of the open weapons left to him.

So he sat.   And he drank.   And he wondered if there was any kind of upside possible to his situation.

Then.  . . things changed.

It started with a guy.  A regular, normal guy who sat down at his table just like dozens of other men had and women had done.  Didn’t matter what he was after, not at first, because Spike had heard it all before.  Just another guy.  Some regular, working schmoe with no idea that he’d slid next to a vampire, no clue that had it not been for government intervention, he’d probably be dead.

Spike growled, low and menacing, when a sweaty hand slid under the table to rest on his thigh.

“Hey,” the man said quietly.  “Not good to drink alone.”

“Not interested,” he replied shortly.  “Sod off.”  For good measure he flashed a bit of yellowed eye and elongated fang.  The guy’s laughter told Spike that he was either a blind fool or a moron.  That was okay.  There were plenty of things he could do to remove the unwelcome visitor that wouldn’t result in a drop of physical pain.  Idiot Scoobies, thinking he was truly muzzled and chained just because that avenue was barred to him.

“Sure.  Pretty boy like you should have someone buying all his drinks.”  The hand squeezed a bit, sliding up higher.

Alcohol?   Well, then, that was a different thing altogether.  Spike carefully looked the man over, noting a tolerably clean condition and no obvious problems.  It wouldn’t hurt to string this guy along, then, see where it got him. . .

Glancing significantly at his nearly empty bottle, he stifled an exultant grin when his new gentlemen friend ordered two more.  Nice.  Spike drank quickly, noting with amusement the glee that appeared in the other man’s eyes.  The hand slid higher, beginning to kneed lightly.  Five bottles—the total after these two were drained—wasn’t going to do more than make the vampire tipsy.  However, he played along, beginning to enjoy the role he crafted for himself.

This was an old game, played to perfection in the seventies and early eighties in New York with Dru.  Been a while since he’d done it—it hadn’t worked well once they’d gone back to Europe, and after that Dru had been ill—but some things never changed.  Normally, he used his small frame and pretty-boy looks to play the naive innocent, but tonight it was just too much effort.  Instead, he became the drunken buffoon, allowing traces of nervousness to convince the other man—Bill—that the only reason he hadn’t flown into a homophobic rage was the massive amounts of alcohol in his system.

They chatted awkwardly for another ten minutes, Spike drinking steadily throughout the encounter.  Both bottles disappeared, a third handed over with condescending amusement.  Bill knew the score, obviously experienced at this, and Spike was comfortable letting him have the lead.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?   Lookin’ kinda sick, there.”

“Yeah. . .mate.  Think I need to, um, clean up.  Or something.”  Amusing, to play this type of character.  The irony of allowing someone else to use him, a vampire, the ultimate user.

His stomach twisted.

Refusing to dwell on the growing sick feeling— _what if this isn’t just a suck-and-go?  Can’t even scratch the fucker if he decides to play it rough_ —he remembered past encounters.  Innocent boys looking for their firsts, picked up by a stranger who looked silkily sensual in the darkened bars and street corners they frequented.  The sound of their startled gasps of pleasure as they felt oddly cold touches on their burning skin.  Sometimes, if he was feeling magnanimous, he would actually suck them dry—before sucking them  _dry._

The choices were infinite: whether he was standing or on his knees, mouth or ass, alley way or bathroom.  Whether he was the buyer or the bought, innocent or worldly, sweet or cruel.  Dru had shook her head at her lover’s antics, content to watch and dance to her mysterious music while he played, sometimes even joining in.

Those times had been special.

Concentrating on the prior memories he was unsurprised when he felt himself harden.   _Vampire, here.  Can get it up anytime anywhere_.  Glancing at the watch he’d nicked from the Watcher—who hadn’t yet noticed it missing—he decided he’d been there about five minutes.  Good.  Shouldn’t be much longer now.  He’d have to do a good job, secure himself a big tip; the effects of several bottles of alcohol were wearing off, thanks to vampire physiology, and he needed more.

Much, much more.

The door clicked open, Bill smiling with smug glee.  Spike made himself look confused and nervous, growing self-disgust warring with arousal.  It was what the client wanted, after all, and that’s what gave the game its spice.

“This your first time?”

If Spike hadn’t been in his role, he would have smirked.   _Condescending little shit_.  He remembered the way Dru’s eyes had dilated when he’d brutally fucked a bruiser who’d never bottomed in his life.  Or when he’d been so gentle, so compassionate and caring, when he’d sucked a beautiful teen to his first ejaculating orgasm.  That boy’s cream had tasted like fine wine, and if it wasn’t for Dru’s jealousy he’d have turned the lad that night.  Instead, since she  _was_  jealous, he’d been allowed to live.

“Yes.”  He began to pant when the heavy belt was undone, jeans open and pushed down just enough to release a pulsing erection.   _Small,_  the dispassionate observer in the back of his mind noted neutrally.  If anything, small was probably good.  It’d been a while since he’d done this.

“Mm, lovely.  You’re such a pretty boy.”

 _This_ boy’s _been screwing before your grandparents were old enough to know the difference between a cock and a cunt.  Save the bullshit and just let me get to it_.  Except Jack, the homophobic straight guy who he was pretending to be, wouldn’t have thought that.

“M’not a boy,” he mumbled instead, allowing himself to rub lightly over his own erection, wishing he could sweat.  Nasty stuff, water dripping over your skin like that, but it would complete the picture.  “’m a man.”

“You doing this for money, then?”

“Wouldn’t say no to a few quid,” he responded through quickening breath.  He hid a smirk as Bill’s heartbeat increased—he’d thought the business aspect would appeal.  Several bills were peeled out and waved.  “I like you, and you get more.”

“Bastard,” he whispered, choking the word out and letting the hate grow a touch stronger.   _Not much more,_  he cautioned himself.   _This one isn’t sadistic, just a bit on the dominating side._

Bill pushed his jeans down a little further.  “You know why I love this bar,” he commented as he leaned back against the door.  “There are three separate bathrooms back here.  One for men.  One for women.  One for those of—other needs.”

Spike made himself look surprised, although what he really wanted to do was roll his eyes.  Did this guy actually think that even a confused moron like Jack wouldn’t notice that?   Or make assumptions?   That, and the fact that this particular bathroom was  _very clean_.  A small box near the door explained why—and the relatively cheap liquor prices.  Every buyer left a bit in that small box, a way to fulfill their fantasies without the dirty, smelly grime of reality.

He’d known of this added feature before he’d ever set foot in this particular bar.  Actually, it was part of the reason he’d chosen it.

“That’s sick.”

“Yeah,” Bill laughed.  “So are you.  C’mere.  I want you to taste it.”

Spike settled onto his knees, making a show of grimacing and fussing to get himself comfortable.  But the show went on too long, a maelstrom of emotion knocking him off balance and out of character.

 _I’m a vampire!_  his mind, no longer detached, screamed.   _Not supposed to be doing this ’les it’s_ fun _and I get a good meal out of the deal.  Sure as hell shouldn’t be doing it cause I’m fucking horny and it’s a way to make money_.  Money! _What the hell does a vampire need with fucking_ money!

A hand clamped on his neck, forcing his head up.  “Hey.  I already spent good money on you.  Don’t think you’re getting out of this.”

The pain helped him focus, banishing the unwelcome thoughts and concentrating on the scene.  He let himself look angry, then ashamed, and finally cowed.  “I know.”

“Good.  That’s good.  Oh, and feel free to make whatever noise you want.  This place is soundproofed.  No one will disturb us.”

The combination was meant to reassure and terrify at the same time, removing the terror of being found out—but increasing the very real fear that if this went wrong, there was no escape.  It made the look in Spike’s eyes more real, the bitterness just a bit too brittle, since unlike all the other times he’d played this game—it was  _true_.

Bill laughed and pulled the head he still held close enough that Spike’s nose brushed an already weeping cock.  “No, don’t worry.  I’ll give you plenty of instructions.  Lick me.  No teeth, just tongue.”

He never should have done it.  He should have shoved himself free, broken the damned lock and run into the night.  He should have started screaming rape—which  _would_ have brought someone running, despite what Bill seemed to think.  He should have broken through the frosted window and crawled out.  He should have done  _anything_ except what he did.

Gently, hesitantly, nervously, he let his tongue poke about the bottom of the head that dangled before him.

“Oh, yeah, Jack.  Just like that.  Do that, all over.  Use the flat of your tongue, just like I was a fucking popsicle.”

At first, it was a cause for concern.  The crackling, sparkling jolt that ran from head to toe was just like what he felt when he bumped into someone.  Not really  _pain,_  per se, but a warning.  A hint that if he didn’t stop right then, it was going to get a lot worse.  As he tasted the sticky precum coating the shaft, he felt that same prickling feeling cover him in gooseflesh he hadn’t felt in a hundred years.

If the bloody, buggering chip went off here and now, Spike was in deep trouble.

But it didn’t.

“Suck me.  Just the head.”

The pain of the chip usually felt cold—harsh, icy shocks that he could almost see.  This felt. . . warm.  Soothing.  Nice.  As he sealed his lips behind the head, sucking just a bit while his tongue traced patterns around the slit, the feeling grew stronger . . . deeper. . . it felt. . . good.

“God, you’re a natural,” Bill moaned, the single most clichéd bit of drivel that Spike had often sworn he never wanted to hear again, and the next bloke he sucked off that said that was going to get his dick ripped off and shoved down his own throat.

Instead, Spike moaned and sucked harder.

It felt good.  It felt  _very_ good, a euphoric feeling tickling the edge of his mind as he worked the cock before him.  The more moans he got, the more panting grew harsher and the heart beat against its bony cage, the better the feeling.  He sank into it, following the gasped out directions instantly, anything to keep that feeling.

Who cared that he was a vampire with no bite?  Who cared that the demon community had thrown him out, leaving him stuck between worlds?  Who cared that he was alone?  Who cared that he was one his knees with a pathetic excuse for a cock in his mouth, all the way in and barely reaching the beginning of his throat?  Who cared that he was moaning like a whore, his own erection so far beyond hard that it could have sliced through diamond?

“Knew you’d like it, bitch,” Bill babbled above him.  “Knew you’d beg for it.  They all beg me for it.  You love it, you fucking slut.  Yeah, that’s it, moan for me, fucking scream for me.  Oh, god, harder!”

Bill was fucking his face with abandon, now, regardless of the supposedly virgin throat.  Practically screaming, he rained down words of use and abuse, hands pulling at gel-crusted hair, holding the head steady while he thrust.

Spike let him, every word, every moment, driving him higher.

It felt like flying.  Better then when he’d tracked down the arsewipes he’d been mocked by and tortured them before draining them dead.  Better than the first time he and Dru had fucked.  Better than the first time he and  _Angelus_ had fucked!  Every word, every movement Bill made translated into the most extreme form of pleasure he’d ever felt.

“Take it, bitch, take it, take it,  _take it!”_

The pleasure spiraled up, so extreme that now it  _was_ almost pain, filling him as warm, salty fluid filled his mouth.  He struggled to force himself to swallow, his own body throbbing right on the edge, exquisite pleasure holding him there, keeping him suspended—

“Fuck, you’re good!”

He exploded.


	2. Chapter 2

He came to slowly, his body still working while his mind had been—gone.  Squeeze and thrust and rock and  _squeeze_.  Harsh breathing bathed the back of his neck in humid bursts, hands still scrabbling at his sides as he was used.  Unconcerned about his body’s movements, he tried to place what exactly had happened.  He could smell come—his own and a human’s—but the frantic, jerky motions behind him seemed to indicate a desperate need for relief not yet found.

 _Again?_   Biting back a grin, he started thrusting back harder, fiercer, muscles clenching with a vampire’s strength.   _Again._

“Fuck, yeah,” was gasped into his back.  “Fucking cunt.  Such a goddamned whore.”

He moaned in answer, wanting more words, more touches, more anything.  More  _everything_.

The unlubed cock jack-hammered into his flesh, but any pain had long ago faded into the glowing, golden haze.  His body on autopilot, he lost himself to the floating, shimmering warmth, the vivid, euphoric mist of pleasure.

It was good, here.  Timeless and good.

As warm human ejaculate coated his bleeding insides, his own body began to spend without a single touch.

When he came to again, he was being led into an office building.  Blinking dazedly, he tried to figure out what he’d missed this time.

Not that it really mattered.

“Jack?  Fuck it, he’s lost again.  Man, I wish I knew what this bastard does.”  He had to smile at that, a groggy little smile at the question that was routinely asked at the very least once or twice a night.  Usually by his handles, sometimes by his customers.  Everyone thought he was on some kind of drug, one that made him the perfect sexual partner in bed and a dazed, malleable mannikin when he wasn’t.

A woman’s voice with a child’s intonations whispered at him from the memories he could no longer really access,  _“Pleasure, my Spike.  Save your wicked tortures for your Princess; use pleasure and watch their minds shatter and break, crack and crumble upon the ground.  Play with them, my Spike, make them beg for you to hurt them just a little bit more.”_

He was dimly aware that it wasn’t supposed to be like this.  That he was. . . different.  He knew he fed off a thick, ruby-red liquid that none of the other whores would touch, and sometimes he even remembered that he wasn’t precisely human.  Sometimes, when he woke up just as the sun set and was led to the bathroom by the pretty girl with the long black hair, he remembered that his name wasn’t Jack and he wasn’t a whore and he was supposed to be somewhere. . . ask someone something. . .

But then he’d kneel between the pretty girl’s thighs as the shower rained down on them and drink from her while she washed his hair.  Afterwards, while she dried and dressed him, he would remember nothing more than that pleasuring others was a  _good_  thing.

He was dressed in a suit, he noticed as they passed the security guard and climbed up several flights of stairs.  He was clean, too—his last customer had enjoyed covering him in white, stringy fluid and then laugh as he tried to lick himself clean—so a substantial bit of time had passed.  He held up his arms, admiring the black cloth against his own deathly pale skin.  The pretty girl with the black hair didn’t like his truly white coloring but said nothing when Kane came around.

He stumbled at the thought of Kane, shivering in remembered fear.  Kane liked for him to attack the tall, burly man, no matter how much he didn’t want to.  It hurt.  It  _always_  hurt, like icy blue stilettos pushing through his eyes and temple into his brain.  Kane scared him because Kane never wanted pleasure, just pain.

He didn’t  _like_  pain.

“Jack.”  He raised glassy eyes to look at the waist of his current handler—Kevin, he thought his name was.  Maybe.  The one that always smelled of saw dust and machinery.  Names were ephemeral things, but scents were still useful identifiers.  He studied the man’s cock through his jeans—already half-hard, just from being near him.  The dopey smile altered into something more predatory, a jolt of warmth edging through the cloud.

“Yes?” he purred, moving closer while his eyes never left the tightening jeans.  Handlers were allowed to use him if they wanted to—so long as it didn’t interfere with his next customer, anyway.  Some handlers came early to take him in their cars or against a wall, enjoying the virgin-tightness he returned to every single night.  Sometimes they got in trouble for this, since wealthy customers wanted to enjoy that unusual ability for themselves; dust-metal-oil-sweat rarely took him, though.  He wasn’t sure why.  He  _liked_  that smell, of sunlight and bodies that worked hard.

Kevin took a step back.  “This one’s a CEO on a long-distance conference call.  Don’t make a lot of noise, if you can.  He’ll tell you what he likes and doesn’t like.”  A gentle pat on his shoulder and Kevin was knocking on the door and taking himself back down the stairs.

He watched him go, wondering why he missed the scent of sunlight so much.

“Ah, very prompt.  Jack, they said your name was?”

Two seconds to study the middle aged man who opened the door.  Salt-and-pepper hair, a thin mustache on a hard, demanding face.  A suit cut to fit his aging, but still decently in shape body perfectly.  Grey eyes behind thin glasses, studying him equally as intently in a few quick flickers.

Submissive, then.  Demure, quiet, and obedient.

“Yes, sir,” he said, linking his hands behind his back and lowering his head to stare at the floor.

“Good.  You may call me William.  Follow me.”

He remained a proper one step behind, the purposeful stride only confirming what he’d initially guessed.  This one would give few instructions, little praise, and expect instant obedience.  That was okay; he didn’t  _need_  the client to tell him what to do, most of the time.  Once the initial confusion was passed, he  _knew_  what the client wanted because the better they felt, the better  _he_  felt.

“Would you like something to drink?”  The large office room was elegant and spartan.  A large desk dominated the room, covered with papers and a hightech computer. 

“No, sir.”

“Once the meeting starts, I will not wish to be interrupted.  If you wish something, you will have to get it yourself.”  That was interesting, he thought as he began stripping off the fine suit.  The client watched avidly, despite how economical his movements were.  Normally, refreshments were out of the question.  The cursory question was usually just that—cursory and without real meaning behind it.  This offer was genuine.  Should he want food or drink later—the well stocked bar and small refrigerator told him that many choices were available—he would be allowed to simply stand and get what he wished.

That kind of freedom was unusual.  He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“This call looks to be long and complicated.  I’d be grateful if you didn’t listen to anything that was said.”

“Of course, sir,” he said immediately.  He’d long ago perfected the art of hearing without listening, waiting for any comments that were actually directed at  _him._   “Where would you like me, sir?”  Dirty talk would be wasted on this one, especially once the call began.

“I’d like you to suck me.  Kane was quite effusive with your ability to last for a long time; was he lying?”

“No, sir.”  This would be good.  Hours and hours with a cock in his mouth, his untiring body pleasing his client and pleasing  _himself. . ._   Yes, this would be  _very_  good.

“I also may ask you to ride me.  It depends on how frustrating the meeting is.  I will come frequently—please do not make a mess on my floors.”  Another interesting bit of freedom—if he didn’t want to swallow, was the implicit understanding—he did not have to.

Not that he wasn’t going to.

“Of course not, sir.”

“Undress me from the waist down.”  There was no teasing while he removed shoes, socks, pants, and underwear, folding them neatly and placing them on a nearby chair.  William didn’t want teasing.

“Now, I must sit at my desk.  Despite the late hour, it is conceivable that others will arrive—my vice president is due back from a trip and may stop in to say hello—so if you do not object, I would like you to be under the desk.”

 _That_  was a blatant lie, easily readable behind the thin lenses and the suddenly twitching cock, but there was no need to call him on the kink—the client would get what the client wanted.  After all, the better the client felt, the better  _he_  did.  Impassive, he slid his naked body under the dark-cherry wooden desk, crouching in the corner while William seated himself and grew comfortable.  There was a great deal of room underneath the desk and he could see that this was not the first time William had indulged this particular kink—a nicely sized pocket had been hollowed out of the desk, so that bobbing heads would not thump against the top of the desk.

That was noisy, after all.

“You may begin when you wish.”

Confused at the gesture of—was it respect?—he ignored the implicit choice and leaned forward.  Nuzzling into slightly spread thighs, he licked his way up to find an extremely hard cock waiting for him.  Smiling, already anticipating the bliss, he sank down and took it deep within his throat.

“Uhhhh.  How—how long can you do that?”

Swallowing and pulling back slightly, he said, “I can hold my breath a long time,” he said with just a hint of heat in his voice.  “If you wish it, Sir?”

Hands gripped his hair, forcing him back down so that his nose rested on crisp pubic hair.  He hardly moved, sucking lightly and tracing his tongue along the vein in an absent kind of pleasure.  He  _would_  have to lift up occasionally to take aid in the suction but otherwise. . .

“That. . . that’s  _good.”_

He moaned lightly in agreement, knowing it would make the client even hotter, confident in his ability to give pleasure.

 _“Teach them, teach them, my Spike.  Teach them like my Daddy taught me.  Such beautiful music in their screams. . .I hear it calling me, my Spike.  Can’t you hear it?  Make them dance for me, my Spike.  Can you make them dance?  Around and around to make you happy, every thought on pleasing you.”_

 _“I know how to make them scream, luv, but making them_ want _it?  That’s—”_

 _“Like my Daddy.  I miss my Daddy.  Can we go find him again?”_

 _“Er, sure, Dru.  We can go find your Daddy.  I’ll bloody well stake him myself.”_

 _“My Daddy made me love the pain.  Make them love you.”_

 _“By hurting them?”_

 _“No, silly Spike.  By_ pleasing _them.  Happy thoughts, happy thoughts.  Every bit of salty life given is a bit that you can take.  Take it, my Spike.  Make them dance for Princess?”_

For two and a half hours he knelt there, cock in his throat occasionally playing with the balls resting against a plush leather seat.  William came several times like that, never losing a bit of his erection.  One time William pressed a bare foot against his bare groin, rubbing lightly in the sticky cum there.

“You enjoy this?”  William was on hold.  True to his word, two people  _had_  come in and out; every time the door closed on their retreating backs, hands had grabbed his head to pull it roughly while cum filled his mouth.  That had been very nice, since  _he_  had had to do nothing but gently suck, yet the pleasure had been. . . intense.

William pushed him off, rolling the chair back slightly so that he could crawl out.  He immediately climbed onto William’s lap, rocking against the erection that hadn’t flagged once.  “Yes, Sir.”

“There’s lube in the drawer.”

Retrieving it, he quickly prepared himself and sank back down.

“Oh, god!  You’re a virgin!”

“No, Sir,” he contradicted, his arms straining as he raised and lowered himself in an awkward position.  He must have eaten during his lost time, that always made him heal faster.  “I am not.”

“God.  Oh, god.  You’re so  _tight._   Gonna have to—ask Kane for—you, again,” William panted.

Silent, he increased the tempo—slightly, the angle wasn’t good for him—arching back as the pleasure he gave William returned to him a hundred-fold.

“Sir?  Are you still there, Sir?”

“Yes, Lucy, I’m here.”  William forced himself to concentrate, despite body riding him slowly, carefully.  The purpose here was not to get the client off as quickly as possible, nor to devise ways to torture through pleasure.  The client simply wanted something to distract him while he worked through the current business negotiation.  So movements were never fast, never loud, never more than a pleasant background sensation while the mind was occupied.

Of course, once the phone was hung up. . .

Cool, smooth hands grabbed him, pushing him back against the desk while the barely-felt returning thrusts became long, hard, and deep.  He moaned, exposing his neck and arching his back, barely aware that this would please the client.  His own cock was hard again and William grabbed the base of it, squeezing almost to the point of pain.  Thrashing under the silent command, he focused on what it did to William, to have this much control over him—

And the pain went away.

That was why he didn’t care to remember anything but how to please whoever was currently using him to get off.  He hurt people all the time—he knew he did, because each time he received a jolt that knocked him to his knees and left him panting for air he was certain he did not need.  The pain was searing, blinding, little blue shocks spiderwebbing through his mind.

The pleasure was healing balm for this pain.

He lost himself in bliss, free of pain and full of joy, knowing that he was making someone else happy.  Giving someone else pleasure.  Vaguely aware of William coming, he was jolted back to the present when a hot mouth settled over the head of  _his_  erection.

The hand at the base of his cock stroked up and then down again.

He screamed and blacked out.

“. . . to ask Kane for you again, Jack.  You were perfect—just like he said you would be.”  Dressed, he nodded dumbly as an envelope was handed to him and he was eased out the door.  Wondering again how much time had passed, he slowly climbed down the stairwell.

“Great.  Just great.  ‘Sure, Kevin, I’ll do you a favor.  That’s what buddies do, we help each other out’.”  A youthful, frustrated voice floated up to reach him.  “Of course, he’s  _paying_  me, but still.  Helping a friend.  Friendly, guy-type-thing for Xander to do.  I figure I help him move some furniture, maybe—I don’t know, whatever guys do.  Which I don’t  _know_  since I have no guy friends!”

One more flight.  He was considering not leaving by that exit and just returning home on his own—this handler was loud and seemed to be pacing a lot, and he could smell nervous fear.  That usually meant a brutal night was still ahead of him and he was tired and hungry after being with William for six hours.

“Dammit, Kevin, if I get bitten by a vampire because I’m out in the bad part of town at  _four in the morning_  without my stakes, I am  _so_  going to find you and bite you.  First on my list, that’d be you.  Then I’d go find Anya.  Oh, yeah, definitely biting her.  You’d think a former vengeance demon wouldn’t—”

He’s stopped by the doorway, fighting through the ever-present haze to make a rational decision about what he should do.  Standing with his muscles taut to keep the warm come in his cool body, he’s caught the scent of this new handler.

Saw dust.  Oil.  Machinery.  Wood.  Spicy-sharp scent that was water, but wasn’t.  Lingering perfume and a hint of a man’s cologne.  Sunshine.  Laughter.

Familiar.

The scent drew him outside before he’d fully decided to, mincing the last few steps when a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy looked at him with a pole-axed expression.

“Spike!”


	3. Chapter 3

“Shit!”  The handler hurled himself backward, cursing again as he impacted against a wall and slid to the ground, holding his ankle.  “You know what?  Screw this.  You want to kill me, Spike?  Then just kill me.  I have no stakes because I am a moron and I just give up.”

It took a moment for him to realize that the boy was addressing  _him._   Then the request filtered through.  Did this one think—that he could—

Pain was  _bad!_

The handler flinched back when he knelt on the dirty ground, pushing large, work-roughened hands away to examine the handler’s ankle.  It was wrenched, he decided after carefully probing it, and the calf muscle was cramping.  The ankle he could do little about, but. . .

“What the fuck!”

He ignored the attempts to struggle, intent only on easing the tight muscle, finding the one point where it was twisted and taut and kneading it until it was loose and warm and putty under his touch.  He hummed lightly when he felt it uncramp, a low wave of pleasure spreading through him.

“Um, Spike?  Spike?”

Was his name Spike?  It was a better name than Jack, he decided dazedly.  Spike sounded. . . right.  He was Spike.  “Yes?” he asked because this handler obviously expected a response.  He didn’t know why this handler was frightened of him—he could smell that clearly—but fear and pain were bad things and he was only supposed to give pleasure.

“What are you doing?”

“You had a cramp, Sir,” he explained as he spread his massage up past the knee to work strong thigh muscles.  He could feel random twitches of nervousness firing under his fingers, but there was no pain in his mind, just pleasure, and he knew this handler would not refuse.

 _“Sir?_   Spike, you disappeared two months ago.  Willow made us all go look for you, even though Buffy was pretty happy with you potentially dust and Giles didn’t care since it saved him money and—what the  _hell_  are you doing?”

The last was squeaked and Spike hid his grin as he too felt the sharp jolt of pleasure when he brushed against a straining erection.  Arousal mixed with the heady scent of sunlight and laughter, creating a mixture that smelled almost as good as the rising pleasure felt.  He wanted to please this handler more than most, especially if it meant he got more of that lovely smell.

“Tight,” he murmured as he worked.  “Too tight.  Need to relax, Sir.  Let me help you relax.”

“Spike, let go of me.”

“Yes, Sir.”  Masking his disappointment, he dropped his head submissively and waited for instructions.  Kane had taught him that disobedience was very, very bad.

“Okay.”  The boy scrambled to his feet and began to pace.  “Kevin got hurt at work, decided it’s hard to do his night job—whatever that is—when he’s at the hospital with three cracked ribs and a concussion.  He asks me to fill in.  Okay, great, and I get three hundred dollars too, cause I’m his buddy and his foreman and he trusts me not to—not to talk about it.  Shit.  I’m supposed to pick something up, deliver it to a hotel and get my money.  And I am an  _idiot.”_

Stopping right in front of Spike, who had remained kneeling on the ground, the young man swallowed nervously.  “Spike, get up.”  He rose, head still down, hands clasped behind his back.  “Spike, what did you do, upstairs?”

“I was with a client, Sir.”  He was starting to become a bit nervous.  He’d never had a handler talk to him this much, unless they were giving him orders.  Few ever made  _conversation_ , since he would only answer a direct question, most content to talk  _at_  him when they weren’t getting what they wanted.  Besides, it was time to return home.  The girl with the dark hair would let him drink from her before sleep, if he was good.

“A client.  What did you  _do_  with this client?”

“Sir?”

“Did you—did you have sex with him?”

“Yes, Sir.”  While there  _were_  some clients who requested him for non-sexual purposes, those were quite rare.

“What the hell happened to you?” the handler breathed, finally  _looking_  at him.  Spike could feel dark eyes flickering over his skin, almost palpable in their intensity.  He wanted to shift and cover himself, but he hadn’t been given permission so instead he remained still.  “You disappear for two months and when you reappear, I find the friendly little favor I’m doing for Kevin is providing escort for  _hookers_  and that—that one of them is you.  Spike.”

Spike didn’t attempt to analyze the words said to him; they were not commands, therefore he could successfully ignore them.  But he longed to see if sunshine and laughter tasted as good as it smelled.

“And you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Spike realized that required an answer.  “No, Sir.  Should I, Sir?”

The handler shivered but Spike didn’t think it was from cold.  “Don’t call me that.  It’s—it’s just  _creepy.”_

Spike opened his mouth to agree—but then hesitated, seeing the trap between this handler’s request and Kane’s many lessons.  “Very well,” he said uncomfortably.

“So, uh.  Right.  I should take you to Giles.  He’ll want to know about this.”  Dark eyes now looked very uncomfortable.  “Spike, do you—do you know who I am?”

“No, S—no.”

“You don’t.  Okay, well, I’m Xander.  Do you know who  _you_  are?”

“I am Jack,” he answered easily, already anticipating the bliss of following orders.  “I am whatever you desire.  I belong to Kane.”

Xander choked, coughing roughly, pounding on his own chest.  Spike immediately caught the twitching body and held it firmly while the spasm eased.  This handler was so warm, heat burning through their combined layers of clothes.  He rubbed a broad back soothingly, wishing he had permission to touch skin instead of cotton cloth.  This handler smelled so good—

“And that is possibly the scariest thing you’ve ever—are you rubbing my  _back?”_

“Yes.”

“Okay, that’s enough.  We are going to Giles.   _He_  can deal with you.  Come on.”

Spike followed obediently, but he was nervous; going to ‘Giles’ implied that he would  _not_  be going home.  Kane would be there to inspect him in less than an hour and if Spike was not there, Kane would be very upset.

When Kane was upset, Spike hurt.

He said nothing as he was led to an old, beat up car.  Seating himself in the passenger seat, he tried to remember if he could do or say anything in this situation.  The boy was muttering to himself, now, about things Spike didn’t understand: crazy vampires and know-it-all watchers.  He  _did_  understand the comments about hookers and tricks—those were frequent topics when he was being transported.

They drove silently for almost fifteen minutes—in the opposite direction.  “What  _is_  it, Spike?” the boy finally snapped.

“Please, Sir, it hurts.”  This was wrong.  He needed to go home before Kane arrived, to be ready to present himself.  He  _had_  to, the pain already building along his spine, radiating across his skin.

“Yeah, well, we’ll be back at Giles’ soon,” was the not at all soothing response.  It was meant to be, Spike could tell that, mixed in with discomfort and reluctance.  But he was  _hurting_ and the only way he knew how to stop the hurting was. . .

“Please, Sir,” he said again, sidling along the seat.  A direct order could—and would—stop him, but in the absence of those orders he had a limited amount of freedom.

“I told you not to call me that,” the young man growled in a way that was echoingly familiar.  “We need to get to Giles.”

Spike moved even closer.  He knew that this was wrong and that he’d be punished for the presumption.  This handler had repeatedly denied interest in using him, despite how aroused he was.  It wasn’t an attempt to play coy, either, not with the amount of nervousness and innocence Spike could read in sweaty palms and tapping fingers.  But he  _hurt_.  And no one could turn him down, once he started making them feel good. 

Mutters were the only sounds as they drove through the small business district before entering the freeway.  Spike gave a brief glance behind him, towards Kane and the black-haired girl who tasted so sweet, but he didn’t have  _orders_  to come home—merely tradition and the specter of Kane’s early morning inspections.  His  _orders_  were to obey and to please, both of which he was doing.

Watching his handler settle into his seat more, Spike surmised they would be on the deserted freeway for some time.  Perfect.  His careful shifting, leaving his body centimeters away from the young man, had been noticed but not yet commented on.

His left hand slid onto jean-covered legs and began to knead.

“I’m not going to be one of your johns.”  The words were quiet, lacking the manic energy from before.  Spike was a little disconcerted by the change, but he felt no pain.  If there was no pain, then there was no reason to stop.

“No, Sir.  You are a handler.”

“A handler,” the word contained such loathing and disgust that Spike almost recoiled.  Not quite, though; the pain was growing too quickly.  “And what does a  _handler_  do?”

“They take me where I am supposed to go.”  Careful movement up near hipbones and a bulge that Spike was desperate to taste.

“So they don’t pay for you?”

“No, Sir,” he said.  His lower body began a slow slide across the seat, moving so that he was optimally placed.

“I told you not to call me that.  Shit.  William the Bloody calling me ‘sir’ and—oh, god.”  The car swerved violently when Spike’s gentle massage traveled up to knead something more. . . responsive.  “Oh, my god.”  The boy was breathing harshly, now, face flushed, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as he forced the car to behave while he was expertly stroked and fondled through his pants.   “D-do you do this f-for all your h-h-handl-lers?”

Spike sank a little lower, body now fully stretch across the seat.  “If they wish it,” he breathed, making sure the shirt was rucked up enough that sensitized skin would feel the cool air.  He could feel this handler’s turmoil: the mental desire to push away, but the overpowering physical desire to stay  _right where he was._   Spike chose to concentrate on the physical, reveling in the growing arousal as his own pain faded into nothing.

“They wish—”

“So long as I am not marked,” he explained as the first button was eased open, “handlers are allowed to do as they wish.”  The car was now careening down the empty road, unable to stay in a single lane as the driver’s erection was freed—

—and immediately inhaled.

“Oh, my  _god!”_

Spike was aware of the car skidding to a stop but concentrated instead on working throat muscles around the hard flesh he’d swallowed.  This young man was painfully erect, like he hadn’t come in days, and Spike’s experience told him that a quick orgasm now would lead to at least one leisurely one immediately afterwards.  If they were going to go to this ‘Giles’ and away from Kane, Spike needed to keep the pain at bay.

Fondling a heavy sac, Spike sucked harshly, denying himself the taste of precum in favor of coaxing out the orgasm that boiled within.  The handler babbled above him, nonsensical words that were too chaotic to form commands.  Hands, work roughened and smelling of sawdust and plaster, twisted in his hair, pulling on the close-cropped locks but to Spike, it was not pain.  There was never any pain so long as he gave pleasure, no matter what the handlers or clients might do to him.

When Spike felt the balls he played with begin to rise and tighten, he immediately swooped down so that the entire length was deep within his mouth and throat.  The pain had faded with the first gasp from above him, but he refused to allow himself to become lost in the growing pleasure.  That could happen later, when he was far from Kane and needed the escape.  For now, though, he wanted this handler to orgasm, wanted him to feel the intense pleasure Spike knew he could offer.

Swallowing repeatedly, he waited for the telltale hitch in words and breath.  When it came, he raised himself up so that only the head remained engulfed and sucked.  Hard.  One hand wrapped around the pulsing shaft to jack it furiously, still kneading at the sac; he wanted to taste this,  _needed_  to taste it.

The handler screamed when the orgasm finally hit, jerking mindlessly as his body released itself.  Spike swallowed as quickly as he could, unwilling to lose a single drop of cum that tasted like the ruby liquid the dark-haired girl gave him.  It tasted like pure sunshine and silly affection and something he didn’t know he craved until it coated his tongue and his throat.  He never needed to taste anything else again, because this was all he’d ever want. . .

“. . . wake up, Spike, you have to wake up!”

The command jerked him back to awareness, a jagged note of pain rippling his skin when he realized the command had been given before and he had not immediately obeyed.

“Are you awake?  Answer me!”

“Yes, Sir,” he said slowly, pulling away from the half-hard cock he hadn’t released when he’d passed out.  “I’m awake.”

“Good.”  Large hands grabbed his shoulders and threw him to the other side of the car.  “You wanna tell me what the  _hell_  that was about?” the handler snarled.  Dark eyes snapped in the dimly lit confines of the car, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, the anger and confusion thick in air that smelled of male musk and cum.  “Answer me, dammit!”

Spike curled into the seat, whimpering as he waited for the blows.  Only Kane was ever this angry with him and Kane hurt him.  “I’m sorry, Sir,” he said with as much strength as he could.  Already, he could feel the pain spreading down into his spine, radiating along nerves and veins to make his skin sizzle.  “Forgive me,” he begged, “forgive me.”

Silence was his only reply.

After a moment he uncurled enough to see his handler sitting motionless in the driver’s seat.  Pants still undone, boxers still yanked down to expose him to the night air.  Angry.  But more than angry—frightened.

Spike didn’t understand the fear, didn’t understand why he wasn’t being punished.  Obviously, he’d done something wrong—that meant punishment.  If he was lucky, sometimes the ones punishing him would enjoy it, but Kane knew about that.  Did Kane know about this?  He hadn’t meant to do anything wrong, but it had hurt, hurt so much.  Not knowing if he was obeying or not, because this handler was so strange and it had  _hurt!_

“Hey, hey!”  He flinched away from the hands that reached for him, burrowing against the door. Senseless, keening noises were coming from his own throat, but he didn’t know how he started them let alone how to stop them.  “Calm down.”

Orders he knew.  Forcing his body to calm, he swivelled until he was seated properly.  Turning expectantly to his handler, he waited for more.

Eyes still black from orgasm and anger blinked at him, patently surprised by the instant obedience.  “O-kay.  Let’s start from the beginning, all right?  Who are you, what are you, and what the hell you just did.”

“I give pleasure.”  When blinking turned into a raised eyebrow and an expectant expression, Spike understood that this handler wanted details.  All of them.

So he told him.

Twenty minutes later, Xander sat in his seat, completely stunned.  “It makes you feel—good?”  Spike nodded, not really understanding the ‘it’.  “Buffy—Buffy has to know this; that the chip isn’t just a ‘No, No, Bad Spike’-thing but a. . . oh, god.”  Sounds of scrabbling and the door popped open just in time for Xander to vomit.

Training took over and Spike was instantly beside the heaving body, holding it until the spasms passed.  When Xander abruptly pushed him away, Spike whimpered and curled up by his door, again.  This handler didn’t like him.  He was bad.  Bad meant punished. 

The pain started again.

“Spike?  What—it hurts?  It hurts  _now?_   But you didn’t hurt me!  I just wanted you to—”  Xander wiped his mouth and shut the car door.  “Answer my questions, Spike,” he began carefully.  “Are you hurting because I pushed you away?  Because I hurt you?”

“No, Sir.”  Bad, he was bad.  He wasn’t supposed to call this handler Sir, yet he’d said that so many times.  But it was habit and instinct and Kane had told him that he  _had_  to call clients ‘Sir’ and ‘Ma’am’ unless they had other names they preferred.  Except handler’s weren’t clients. . .

“Okay, not because I hurt you.  Think.  Come on, think.  I can do this.  Where’s Willow when you need her?  And how am I going to explain this?  Hey, guys, sorry to disturb you at four in the morning but I was doing this favor for my friend.  What favor?  Well, let’s not get into that, but while I was trying to help him out, I found Spike.  He’s a little different then before.  How you ask?  See, there’s kinda this whole needing to—oh!”

Face lit up in surprise, Xander turned back to give Spike a long, measuring look.  “If you make me feel good, that means  _you_  feel good, right?  Okay.  Here’s what we’re gonna do.  You are going to come here and, um, massage my hand and arm, okay?  That’ll make me feel good, and you feel good, and everyone’s happy.  Okay?”

Nodding slowly, Spike slid back across the seat to take the hand pushed out towards him.  Cautiously, unsure of what was being asked, he began to press and knead skin turned hard from life and work.  Calluses offered resistance as he tried to make tense muscles relax and go slack.

The car started, pulling back onto the road as Spike concentrated exclusively on the flesh offered to him.  This was good, he decided dazedly.  Better if he could suck on the cock that tasted so good, or even ride it, better to be working for an orgasm, but this was good too.  Xander enjoyed this and that kept the pain mostly away.  Spike closed his eyes and lost himself in the feel of warm skin and tough, strong muscle underneath it.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Xander said, as the car pulled into the driveway leading to an apartment complex, “but we’ll fix you, Spike.  I promise we’ll fix you.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Willow said quietly.

Only Buffy reacted to the statement, squeezing her hand in silent understanding.  It had been a solid day of talking, shouting and arguing tossed in sporadically.  The only real consensus was that they all felt sick.

Especially Xander.

“He—he looks like Pinnochio!  With the big eyes and the empty expression and he’ll do  _anything.”_  

At first it had almost been a joke: make the Big Bad play the puppet for whoever wanted to pull his strings.  Giles had been methodical in his commands, trying to ascertain how far the compulsion to obey went.  Willow had been curious, almost offering her commands as proof that she understood what was going on and was ready to help Giles with whatever he asked.  Buffy—Buffy hadn’t really believed.  Not until her one off hand comment—

 _It wasn’t malicious.  It couldn’t have been; the look on her face when he opened that door. . ._   That was when it really hit home for them.  Xander already knew, but even he had been horrified by the look of absolute  _bliss_  as Spike prepared to walk out into the bright, Saturday morning sunshine.  It was doubtful that Spike had any idea that Buffy had basically ordered him to kill himself.  All he knew was the order Buffy had given and the pleasure he felt from obeying it.

Xander ran a hand through his hair, not even wondering why he needed the reassurance.  He hated vampires.  The sky was blue, Giles liked books, work was annoying—and Xander hated vampires.  A soul and a chip had forced him to work with two, but that hadn’t really changed his mind.  Vampires were evil things that needed to be killed and he hated them.

Even Xander couldn’t hate Spike now.

“This could be a side-effect, right?”  Buffy had gone very quiet after she’d ordered Spike back inside.  Now she sounded distressed, almost frantic.  “Like weight gain or nausea?  Or, you know, wetting the bed?  I mean, this can’t be what they  _wanted.”_

At his feet, he felt Spike curl even closer.   _Dammit,_  he thought, forcing himself to calm down.  Apparently, vampires could smell emotions and Giles was pretty sure that it was scent more than any other sense that influenced the chip.   _I’m pissed at Buffy, not you, okay?_

“We can’t know until we hear from Riley.”  Giles had said that a number of times and ways, weariness and nausea clear every single time.  “Until then, Buffy, I think it’s a good idea for you and Willow to go about your day as normal.  You both have papers due, I believe, and you mentioned needing to go to the library?”

Willow began to pant in her outrage.  “Normal?  Giles, they—they turned him into a pet!  They made him—”

“They made the chip offer a reward as well as punishment.  Right now, Willow, that is  _all_  we know.”  Rising, Giles gathered up the scattered glasses and plates, placing them by the sink.  “We cannot do anything without Riley.  Until we have some idea of what the Initiative wanted, we cannot even attempt to plan our next move.  So, until then, we should make use of our time and do the things we need to.  I have several errands I must run and you girls need to do your schoolwork.  Now, if you please.”

Xander didn’t say anything while the chastised girls picked up their bags and made their farewells.  He remained on the sofa as the door shut behind them.  It could have been, of course, that Giles didn’t have an easy direction to prod Xander in—but probably not.

“This is going to be complicated.”

 _And the award for massive understatement goes to the British guy with the alcohol-spiked tea._

“They don’t understand what this means.  They have no concept of this kind of mind control.”  Giles voice was calm and controlled, the way it had been during the first few hours before they called the girls.

“No.  They don’t.”

Buffy was worried about the implications to her boyfriend and the organization he worked for.  Well, they knew the Initiative was rotten, but creating a patchwork demon was a diabolical par for normal on the Hellmouth; Buffy was used to it.  She was also still very disturbed by at how her offhand, disbelieving order had almost destroyed Spike—and how  _happy_  he’d been, following it.

Willow was empathizing with what she thought Spike was going through, covering her pity with the same kind of compassion she’d offered a dead Chumash tribe that was more interested in skewering them.  There was no doubt in his mind that Willow’s compassion was real, pity or not.  It always was.   _But then she starts asking questions and gets curious and suddenly you’re a bug under a glass. . ._

Xander understood.

 _Kinda hard not to when he got so desperate that he_  blew _me on the ride over.  And thank god Giles didn’t need too many details to paint that not-so-comic-y strip._   While not the most humiliating conversation of his life, it had definitely ranked up there on the list of those he  _never_   wanted to repeat.  Thankfully, it was Giles who told the more personal aspects of the tale, carefully masking and glossing over details so that a curious witch and a determined slayer never realized they were missing something.

 _They couldn’t have handled it.  They fight evil like Lex Luthor or Darth Vader—not this kind of evil._

Spike’s hands were on Xander’s leg.  His hands were not allowed to move from the position they had been placed, not the tiniest amount.  It had sickened Xander when he realized he _didn’t_  need to offer some kind of punishment if Spike disobeyed—and not because of whatever happy juice the chip was pumping for obeying.   _And thinking about this is such a happy thing._

Spike seemed calmer when he was with Xander, so initially he had sat on the sofa like a normal person.   _Vampire person.  Vampire-person who has to be involved with sex or things leading up to sex or he starts to hurt._

A fact they’d quickly discovered.  Hands had wandered, shoulder and thigh pressing in a way that could only be called provocative, while Xander had done his best to crawl through the cushions to get away.  Well, that was what his  _brain_  wanted him to do, anyway.

 _I am sick.  I’m like Michael Jackson sick.  Like introduce my thirteen year old cousin to my Great Balls of Fire sick._

Two sweetly innocent girls—no matter how worldly their lives had forced them to be—would never understand that.  So Spike had gone on the floor, hands locked in place.

“—are you listening?  Xander?”

“Huh?  Oh, sorry.  I was just. . .”

Giles perched on the arm of the sofa, close without breaching the normal adult-child boundaries they’d set up back in high school.  Xander tried not to take comfort from the heat he could just barely feel from the older man.

“Xander, I need you to tell me right now if you feel you cannot handle this.  I am not trying to pressure you one way or the other, but Spike is—is going to require a lot of care.”

 _Welcome back, Mr. Understatement.  You weren’t gone long enough._

“I get that,” Xander said quietly.  He glanced down to the bleached-blond head pressed against his knee, still marveling at how  _soft_  Spike’s hair was.   _Shouldn’t bleaching make it feel like straw?  Like Buffy’s did, that one time she used the wrong stuff and had to cut it short._

“Xander.”  He looked up, the seriousness of Giles’ voice finally penetrating the shock-y haze.  “Right now, Spike is very much like a puppy.  A confused, obedient, but still very  _needy_   puppy.  He’ll form attachments and, given Spike’s previous personality, those attachments will likely be very strong.”  Tugging his glasses off, Giles tilted his head in a way that reminded him poignantly of Spike.  The old Spike.   _And wasn’t that a freaky little thought._   “If you agree to this, Xander, there’s no backing out.  We’ll of course give you all the help we can, but _you_  would become the primary figure in Spike’s life.  Essentially, you’d become his parent.”

 _Yeah.  Because incest is another happy topic I needed to think about._

His face must have given his thought away, because Giles winced a little.  “Yes, perhaps a poor choice of words, there.  Xander, are—are you all right?  You’ve been surprisingly quiet ever since I called Buffy and Willow and you’re never quiet.”

 _Watcher-man’s trying to make jokes?  The world is ending._   Sighing, Xander sank down slightly in the sofa, wincing when he felt Spike move with him.  “I’m fine.  I’ve just been thinking.”

Giles nodded, remaining silent for a few moments.  “To be honest, I’m at something of a loss as to how to proceed.”

“Too many words, G-man,” he quipped tiredly.  “We Americans use  _less_  words, not more.  Saying ‘I don’t know what to do’ isn’t going to hurt you.”

That got a grin, at least, even if it was small and a little strained.  “Perhaps.  Have you slept at all?”

“Took a nap yesterday afternoon, yeah.  I’m okay.”  He hadn’t expected to be up all night, though.  Kevin said he was never home later than three or four am, so he’d banked on sleeping late the next morning.

“No.  I rather think you’re not.  Xander, if you don’t want to do this, say so now.  I will take him.”

“He doesn’t like you.”  Spike was instantly obedient no matter who gave the orders—but if no orders were controlling him, he went back to Xander.  Giles initially postulated that it was because of the prior connection—but Xander wasn’t so sure.  All that was clear was Spike preferred being near Xander.  Being  _touched_  by Xander.   _And if he isn’t touching someone, or being touched by someone, he hurts._   “I can’t just leave him where he’s uncomfortable.”

Where had the possessiveness come from?  All he could think of on the drive up was how to get out of this situation— _and now I want to save him from the Big Bad Watcher who seems to want to help him.  Insanity, thy name is Xander._

“Very well.  Then perhaps, despite your protestation, you might take a nap?  I really  _do_  have things that need to be taken care of today, so you are welcome to take the guest bedroom.”  There was a pause as Xander said nothing either for or against the offer.  “I’ll go set it up for you, just in case.”

He knew what Giles was obliquely proposing.  He knew, too, what Giles was trying desperately to get him to say ‘no’ to.  It was the thing that the girls wouldn’t understand— _couldn’t_ understand, and neither he nor Giles wanted to be the ones to tell them.  Because they were still so innocent when it came to the harshness of the real world, lacking Giles’ life-long experience and Xander’s—

 _And Xander’s what?  His horrible home life?  Okay, it wasn’t quite as idyllic as Buffy’s—not that hers was tv material, either—but just because I know about this stuff, saw it happening to people around me, doesn’t mean I’ve really lived through it.  Just because I’m—this is ridiculous._

“Giles!”  Spike’s fingers clamped down as Xander pushed to his feet, dragging the vampire for a little.  Xander cursed then snapped a harsh order for Spike to let go and follow behind quietly. 

Heading up the stairs, Xander halted in the door way of the guest room, arms wrapped around his middle, waiting for Giles to look up from making the bed in the middle of the room.  “I can’t do this,” he announced, not caring at how agitated he knew he sound.  “I was wrong.  I was stupid, just like I’m always stupid.  I can’t do this.”

Giles gave him a measuring look before tacking a piece of black fabric over the window.  “Why not?  Why are you changing your mind?”

“Okay, did I just jump into an alternate reality?  You  _told_  me that if I couldn’t do this, you would.  Well, I can’t!”  He could feel Spike behind him, standing close enough that had he been human, Xander would have felt his body-heat.  Suddenly, it was horribly important that Spike didn’t have heat or a heart beat or anything like that.

“Spike, go sit down on the bed.”  Spike chose the corner closest to Xander.  “Spike, go sit by the headboard.  Do you know any hand stretches?  Good.  Do those until either Xander or I address you.  Do not move and do not speak.”

“Wait a minute, Giles, you can’t just treat him like a—a—”

“Yes, Xander, I can.  Because he  _is._ ”

Sinking onto the edge of the bed Spike had vacated, Xander buried his face in his hands.  “Why me?” he asked his palms.

“Because I know you won’t mistreat him, even though he’s our enemy.  Your. . . insistence on fair play won’t allow you to hurt him and your compassion will probably be beneficial to him.  You also currently have the most available time.  Which is perhaps not a good reason, as it can be argued I have that as well, but—”

 _Uh-oh._   “Giles?  You’re babbling.  You don’t babble.”

“Yes, very droll.  Look, he seems to trust you the most, I know you won’t harm him and, frankly, I know that you’re attracted to him.  And I don’t think I’m far wrong in believing he is attracted to you as well.”

Xander’s jaw dropped.

When that seemed to be the only reaction he was going to get, Giles crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.  “Spike, I want you to answer me truthfully.  Where do you want to stay, while we figure out how to help you?”

The vampire blinked, eyes big as he glanced between Giles and Xander.  “Sir?  I don’t—I don’t understand.”  He never stopped contorting his fingers.

“We’re going to try to help you, although none of us are entirely certain as to precisely what that entails.  Until then, however, you need to be taken care of.  What you described happening with your—with  _Kane_  implies that you know you need this.”

Spike was so graceful.  It was hard to tell, with the street-punk attitude he infused into everything, but he really was.  The way each individual finger stretched and flexed, the tendons bunching and releasing under taut skin. 

Xander wondered what would happen if no one told him to stop.

“Yes, sir.  I am weak and stupid and I need someone to tell me what to do.”

Again the glasses came off, but instead of cleaning them Giles rubbed his eyes.  It was oddly reassuring because that statement was— _something he was taught to repeat again and again and the way he is now, he believes it._   Xander had his own set of rote-phrases learned in a lifetime of saving his skin from one monster or another.  He knew how hard it was not to believe them, even when you  _weren’t_  being brainwashed.

There was a strange hitch in Giles’ breathing as the glasses were replaced.  “Yes.  Like that.  Where is it that you would like to stay?”

Fine tremors were visible Spike’s ever-moving hands.  Lines appeared around the doe-like eyes that had stared with placid acceptance at everything, which now reflected confusion and. . . was that fear?  His voice wasn’t steady as he repeated, “Sir?  I don’t understand.”

“Do you want to stay with me, Spike?  Or with Xander?  Or somewhere else?”

“With?  I will be with whoever I am told.  Sir.”

The connotation was obvious, as was Spike’s increasing agitation.  Xander watched as the vampire began to tremble, his innocent blue eyes going glassy from pain.  Watched the way Spike no longer looked at him, focusing his entire attention on the Watcher.

 _Why is he doing this?  Can’t he see that it’s hurting him?_

“Spike,” Giles’ voice was cold and hard, “I want you to make a choice.  I am  _ordering_  you to make a choice.  Who do you want to stay with?”

“I—Sir, I—I don’t—”

“Who, Spike?  Do you want to stay with me?  Or perhaps go back to Kane?”

“No!  He said—” quick glance over to Xander, “I shouldn’t—”

“Enough!  Spike, calm down, you’re coming with me.”

The trembling that had rocked the entire bed instantly abated, some of the pain lines fading as Spike got his reward.  “Yes, Sir,” he said diffidently, angling his body slightly towards Xander.  “As you wish, Sir.”

His hands still moved.

“Xander, why did you come charging up here before?  What specifically made you change your mind?”  Giles hadn’t moved the entire time, his expression unchanging.

“I don’t know!”

“Yes, you do.” 

Yes, he did.  It was clear as what he’d been trying to hide when he untucked his shirt hours before, now bunched in his lap.  The one he fiddled with even now, trying desperately to ignore what it meant.

“Xander, it’s a perfectly normal reaction.”

“Normal?   _Normal?_   This isn’t  _normal_ , Giles.  Nothing about this is  _normal.”_

“Why, Xander?  Tell me why you changed your mind.”

“Because I know I’ll have to fuck him!  And I want to!”

The shout reverberated on the pale grey walls, so loud it seemed to shimmer in the still air.  Spike whimpered low in his throat, hunching down to get away from what was obviously a source of pain to him.  Without thinking about it, Xander offered his hand to be rubbed the way it had been during the long car ride earlier.  Spike’s cool fingers were soothing against his heat, kneading away at calluses from myriad jobs and the more constant reality of slaying.

Breathing hard, Xander let himself fall back onto the bed.  The mattress was firmer than his own, the material preventing him from curling into the ball he wanted to.  Beside him, Spike whined again and shifted closer.

He heard Giles approach the bed.  “Long ago. in the Mesozoic Era, I was once nineteen years old.  I remember the—pressures you have.  Right now, Spike can benefit from that.  I know that sounds callus, but he’s hurting, Xander, and of all of us here, you’re the one best suited to care for him.”

“Use him.  You want me to use him.”  The words twisted in his mouth, leaving a bitter, acidic residue.

“I want you to  _help_  him.  Xander, if you truly don’t believe you can do this, I will take him, as I said I would.  But leaving him alone for less than an hour left him in unbearable pain—and in no way do I believe he was acting.  Until we have some idea of what is going on, forcing him to go through, well,  _detox_  would be cruel to the point of being sadistic.  To help him, we must help keep the pain at bay—or we  _should_  stake him.”

That’s what the shouting and arguing had been about.  Buffy had raised the issue and the following screaming match had lasted for well over an hour.  None of them wanted to do it, none of them could even contemplate something that resembled murder far more than putting an old and broken dog to sleep.  But leaving Spike like this was—

 _—disgusting.  It’s disgusting, and depraved and you want to_ sleep _with it!_

“I can’t force you to do this, Xander.  Take a nap.  Try and clear your head a little, if you can.”

 _Translation: I’m going out, so if you wanna bone the demonic, brainwashed whore, feel free._

Calling a half-hearted good bye, Xander listened as Giles puttered around his bedroom and then the living room before finally leaving.  The house grew very still after that, the air contracting to a state that didn’t let sound move freely.  Or maybe it was just that there were only two sounds left in the whole house.

One set of lungs.  One heart.

Spike lay on the bed beside him.  Not close enough to actually touch, but should Xander want anything more. . . Spike was waiting.  Probably ready for whatever it might be.

“I can’t do this.”  Rolling onto his side, he studied the open, upturned face.  “I can’t—okay, Giles is right.  I  _am_  attracted to you.  The demon-magnet thing works both ways, or something—which kinda explains the whole Anya thing, since that was just  _acres_  of wrong.  But I can’t just order you around like that!”

It wasn’t the sex, not really.  Yeah, he wasn’t a real big fan of casual sex, but it had been a few weeks since Anya left, which meant he’d gone from having sex at least once or twice a day to relying on his hand.  Jerking off long ago lost its appeal so, casual sex?  Really not a problem.

“Why does this stuff happen to me, huh?  Why can’t  _Buffy_  deal with this?”

Except he knew why.  There were  _lots_  of ‘why’s and the only real ‘why not’ he had left was that he’d like it too much.

Far too much.

The bed started to shake as he lay there, going from one poor-me riff to another.  Turning his head to look at Spike, he could see the now-familiar pain creeping through the vampire’s body.   _Giles is right.  Like usual.  Either I do this, or we need to put him down.  Stringing him along like this is worse than letting him get his fix._

“Spike, if I told you that you could do anything you want, what would it be?  Not what  _I_  want.  What  _you_  want.”

“Sir?”

Well, at least Spike would talk more when it was just the two of them.  Sort of.  Sitting up, Xander tugged Spike to do so as well.  “I’ll tell you what to do, okay?  I just want input, suggestions,  _something._   Because otherwise I’m—” Good air in, bad air out.  “What do you want?”

“I want you, Sir.”

“No, not what I want for you!  What do—huh?”

He’d never understood how submissive the kneeling posture was.  Usually when Anya was kneeling, he was either too lost in the sensation to notice it, or her strident, commanding attitude had blindsided him in spite of it.  Now, though, looking at Spike kneeling on the bed like it was the most natural thing in the world, he could see how subservient it really was.

The way Spike was looking at him had nothing of submission in it.

“I want to please you, Sir.”

He couldn’t just order Spike.  But Spike wanted this and he  _was_  a nineteen year old guy without a steady girl.  He just needed a way. . .   “How?” he croaked out.  “How would you do that?”

Spike tilted his head for a long moment, a dark smile flickering at the edge of his mouth.  “Do you want to be seduced, Sir?” he purred, leaning forward so his weight rested on two balled-up fists.  His voice was low and husky, accent suddenly very loud.  “Do you want me to slowly undress you, kissing and touching your skin?  Tell you to just relax, Sir, an’ let Spike take care of that little problem you’ve had since we came here?  Know you want my mouth on you again, feelin’ me suck you off like I did before.  It was so good, wasn’t it, Sir?  Now’ll be even better,  with this big bed to spread you out on so I can touch an’ tease you ’til you’re beggin’ for it.”

He was panting.  He knew he was panting and yes,  _god_  yes, he wanted Spike to do that to him—which was the problem.

He wanted  _Spike_  to do that to him.

“Why?”

Spike froze, eyes flickering nervously.  Xander almost told him to forget it, the mood he’d been trying for erased, when a smile—a  _real_  smile flared into being.  “You smell like sunlight.”

Then he was on his back, deft hands removing his clothing one article at a time.  Spike was everywhere, his body ghosting over Xander’s flushed skin like a cool breeze.  His rough-slick tongue lapped at nipples gone taut and stiff, a hint of teeth making Xander jump.  A hard, muscled belly pressed against Xander’s erection,  _rippling_  to make it jump and pulse, precome slicking a path on pale skin.  On the upstroke, Xander could feel Spike’s erect cock rubbing against his balls, sliding down to poke and nudge his perineum.

By the time Spike actually began to suck him, Xander was almost in tears from need.  He had no idea how long Spike teased him, too lost in the sensations the talented,  _focused_  vampire created for him.  Gasping too quickly to even moan, Xander levered himself onto his elbows, looking down the length of his body to watch as Spike slowly, expertly, swallowed him down.

Spike was staring at him.  The blitzed look was there, hovering in the depths of blue eyes already crowded with lust, but Spike was still  _there_ , awake and aware, watching every twitch and grimace he made.  Those eyes egged him on, begging him to enjoy the tongue that fluttered along his shaft; the powerful muscles that squeezed the head of his cock; the tight grip at the base of his erection, denying him the release Spike knew he craved.

It felt like Spike kept him there for hours, always backing off the edge to build him back up again.  He knew he was babbling in between gasps, praising and cursing the intense feelings.  His body was sodden with sweat, muscles on the verge of cramping from need.  All he needed was one sweet second—

And then suddenly the restraining hand was gone, replaced by soft lips and a nose that pressed hard into his groin.  Practiced muscles shuddered around the head of his cock and Xander was coming, flooding Spike’s mouth and spending himself directly into Spike’s throat.

When he finally became aware of his surroundings again, Spike was licking him clean.  Xander stared at the ceiling, too lost in post-orgasmic lassitude to object as his body was rearranged, covers tugged up to his chin, and a happy, contented vampire curled around him.

Absently petting the vampire’s hair, Xander closed his eyes and tried very hard not to think.


	5. Chapter 5

_“Come here, Jack.”_

 _The voice was cold, clear.  Cruel, although Spike knew he should not think that._   I am Spike,  _he repeated in his mind, his body kneeling at Kane’s feet._   I am not Jack, I am _Spike,_ I am a vampire, Sired by Drusilla and Angelus, and I am—

 _“Very good.”  A hand ran down his face, creating a wave of pleasure that blanked out thought.  “You are very, very good, aren’t you, Jack?  Yes, you know to be good for me.”_

 _The wave receded slowly, Spike left quivering in its wake._   I am Spike.  I am a vampire and if _—when_ I get out of here, you dickless arsewipe, I’m going to shove my cock so deeply down your throat you fuckin’ choke on it.  Then I’m going to rip out your vertebrae, one by bloody one and shove _them_ up your own arse.  Then, while you’re twitching and screa—

 _“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”_

 _Hot tears burned in his eyes, the stabbing pain of the chip a mild annoyance compared to the fear in his gut.  He knew what was happening to him and he knew that there was nothing to bring him out of it.  So long as both pain_ and _pleasure were controllable he had no means to fight._

 _“That’s right.  Now, what did we go over before, hmm?  Who are you?”_

 _“I am yours.”_ I am Spike.  I am Spike, IamSpike, IamSpikeIamSpike!

 _“And what are you?”_

 _This wasn’t new, but Spike had to force down the shiver of fear the words produced.  This was something different than the conditioning he could feel warping his mind.  This was something far more sinister.  If he could just figure out what the bloody hell it_ was. _“I am yours.”_

 _“No, pretty boy.  Wrong answer.”  Spike quavered, shoulders hunching while a different pain, a new pain that didn’t come from the chip, built cold and aching at the base of his spine.  Its dull strength was more potent than the chip’s blinding agony, more seductive.  More terrifying._

This is the thing, _Spike thought as he pressed his forehead to the ground._ I have to stop this.  I won’t let him control me.  I am William the Bloody, Slayer of bloody Slayers, and I will not let him do this to me.  If I can just figure out how to stop  _this_  pain before the other one sets in—

 _Kane picked up the small, silver cross that he always kept by his side.  “Have I given you any orders, Jack?”_

 _“No, Sir,” Spike replied quickly, the pain growing.  He fought it, lessons learned at Angelus’ feet in controlling pain and its effects giving him an edge.  Kane, however, knew exactly what he was doing—and did it as well as Angelus did.  If not better._

Just gotta beat this, _he reminded himself._ So long as I beat this, I can deal with a little pain from the chip.  And a little pleasure.  I can.  Just gotta beat this. . .

 _Kane’s smile said he understood exactly what was going through Spike’s mind.  Rising, he took Spike’s hand and curled it around the cross, holding it there.  Then he waited, still smiling, while Spike tried to stay still as his flesh sizzled and burned.  Finally, it became too much, as Kane had known it would, and he jerked himself away, knocking heavily into Kane and triggering the chip._

 _Pain exploded in his mind, joining with the fire in his spine.  The combined sensation, cold and incinerating, flamed through his body like a flood.  Thoughts disappeared in the icy heat,_ everything _disappeared into it until all that was left was the single desire to make the pain stop.  Anything to make it stop, he would do_ anything _._

* * *

Spike woke abruptly, swallowing his scream of pain.  _Safe.  Not safe?_   Breath in his ear, slow and rhythmic, the sounds of the machine that washed clothing rumbling and churning in the corner.  Arms, hard but not hurting, around his waist, his back completely covered by a larger chest. _Master.  Safe._

The waking was always the same.  The dreams were different—although the figures weren’t—but each time Spike woke nearly howling in pain and fear.  Master said they were his memories.  Master didn’t like to hear about those memories, but if he was aware of a dream, he always asked Spike to talk about them.  Describing in calm detail seemed to make Master worse—cheeks flushed with sun and blood would turn green and Spike’s own belly would churn in sympathy—so Spike had started hiding the dreams.  What Master did not know about, he could not ask about.  Then Master wouldn’t hurt.

Spike  _liked_  Master.  Before, ‘Master’ meant hurting or not hurting, two states of being that often meshed into unconsciousness and what Master’s male friend, Giles, called ‘mindless obedience’.  Spike wasn’t sure his obedience was  _mindless_ , just that it was no longer  _his._   Giles always looked so sad when Spike said that, like it wasn’t supposed to be that way.  Spike never understood—he had everything he wanted.  Master took care of him.  Master  _never_  hurt him.

And Master gave him the one thing he valued above everything else.  His name, his  _true_  name, the one that made him think of cold metal and dark, wet nights.  He hadn’t known he needed it until Master sat him down and explained that the other name was a lie.  His name was Spike, William the Bloody.

Spike loved his name almost as much as he loved Master.

A soft mutter against the back of his neck meant Master was waking.  With slow, careful movements, Spike flattened himself to the bed, making certain that Master stayed on top of him the whole time.  He liked it when Master pretended to be a blanket—but he liked it better when Master woke up already erect, held snug between muscles Spike worked hard to keep toned.

“Mmph?  Spike.”

He didn’t understand the moment of surprise when Master woke up.  It had been ten days since Master took him away from Kane, and for the first three Master called him ‘Anya’.  Spike did not mind being called Anya.  Kane had said Spike’s name was whatever anyone wanted, even if it was ‘whore’ or ‘bitch’ or ‘pet’ or ‘slut’.  He was to respond as if he’d been called any of those terms all his life, and Spike did.  Master was angry when Spike told him about that, but Spike didn’t see anything wrong with it.  He knew what his  _true_  name was now.

Master always called him ‘Spike’ when he was awake, though.  Spike had learned that ‘Anya’ was Master’s former girlfriend, so he reasoned that being called Anya was nice.  A compliment, almost.  That did not, however, explain the surprise—if Master was used to waking up next to someone else, why was he always surprised when he realized he wasn’t alone?  At least, that’s why  _Spike_  thought Master was surprised.  Master didn’t answer the one time Spike asked, and forbade him from asking again.

But Master had  _also_  said that Spike could think about whatever he wanted, so Spike thought about it while he moved his hips, gradually increasing his speed as Master grew harder between his buttocks.

“Spike?  Mm.  Good alarm-clock.”

There was a note of teasing in Master’s voice, so Spike did not try to imitate the noise the small machine that used to rest near Master’s head.  It was a horrible sound, jangly and shrill it pierced his skull.  Master didn’t like it either, so when Spike explained that he could wake up at whatever time Master wished and then wake  _Master_  in a much nicer manner, Master had agreed to let Spike smash the small machine to as many pieces as he wanted.

Spike had really enjoyed that.  He’d smashed and cracked until silvery innards scattered along dull grey concrete.  Then he’d chased them, bashing them into even smaller pieces, fresh snowflakes on drifts already discolored from the great big plowing trucks he’d seen on the television.  Master had said there was some of the old Spike left in him, after all, when he’d seen the mess.

“So what are we doing this morning?”  Flame-edge of heat in that voice, wet lips brushing against the blade of his shoulder, and Master was starting to move with him, now.  No more disgust or fear or discomfort, not anymore.  Not after Spike realized why Master thought it was dirty, and reminded him that Spike  _needed_  this.  That Master was  _helping_  Spike.  Master had glared at him, muttering about manipulation and other things Spike did not understand, but he also agreed.

Spike  _liked_  not having to breathe.  It made thanking Master much easier.

But that had been days ago, and Master felt so good on him.  More than just the euphoria of sex and pleasing, this was  _Master_ , and that felt best of all.  Arching his back more made Master groan quietly, and Spike tensed his muscles in pleasure.  Master liked touching him and being touched, and Spike  _loved_  to make Master orgasm.  The rush of bliss he received was nothing to the faces and sounds Master gave him, the sweetness of Master’s ejaculate the only breakfast that he required.

Master still made him drink red liquid from a tall mug.  Spike no longer pointed out that Master’s come and the red liquid tasted very much like each other, because this also made Master turn green.

“When’d you slick yourself?” Master asked, pushing himself up onto his hands so he had more room to maneuver.

It was colder without Master’s heat on him.  Not as cold as when Master went out, though, so Spike did not complain.  “After you fell asleep.  Xander.”  Master did not like being called Master.  He always said that he was just Xander, just a ‘screw up kid’.  Spike didn’t understand that, but Master ordered that he be called Xander out loud.

But he was still Master inside Spike’s head.

Spike wiggled his hips, knowing that it would make Master gasp and bite his lip and mutter about flexibility.  Master  _liked_  when Spike did that, so Spike tried to do it often.

“After I went to sleep, huh?”  Master could not talk for very long while being pleasured, but he knew Spike could, so he was trying to become better at it.  Spike didn’t care one way or the other, but if Master spoke then he would respond.  “So you were  _planning_  to have me fuck you without actually fucking you this morning?”

“Yes, Xander.”

Master slapped him, once, working his body faster and faster against Spike’s.  Spike moaned as the flat of Master’s hand touched him, the brief flare of heat not hurting at all.  Master didn’t like hitting Spike during sex, but he was slowly starting to understand that there were types of pain that didn’t really hurt, just make things better.

“And if I wanted to fuck you for real?  If I wanted to slide inside you, and ride you until you were screaming?”

Spike couldn’t scream, was  _never_  allowed to make sounds above normal conversation, but Master had already explained that when he spoke this way it was not a direct order.  Spike didn’t care; Master liked speaking this way, which meant Spike adored it.

“Yes, Xander.  Please.”

“You got yourself all wet and ready for me, inside and out, whatever I want.”  Master wasn’t always good at speaking like this.  He flushed a great deal and sometimes stuttered, but Spike never complained.  Why would he?  Master was asking for everything Spike wanted to give,  _proving_  to Spike that it was wanted.  And more, Spike himself enjoyed it—not just because Master did.  He always grew hard at the first husky word, shivering from his belly out, desperate for more words, more touches, more  _want._   “You like that, don’t you?  Being ready for me?  You’ll blow me wherever I say, and you’ll always be wet when I want to take you.”

“Yes, Xander,  _always_ , Xander.”  Master liked it when he spoke back, as dirty as Master kept trying to be and more, but when it was like this, when Master was fucking the groove of his arse, not in him but  _on_  him, using him but  _not_  ignoring him, Spike didn’t have the kind of words he’d first used to make Master take him.  Like this, there was only desire and begging, and saying Xander over and over again because he could not say ‘Master’ the way he wanted to.

Their rhythm was perfect, Spike matching each twist and shove without even trying.  Bucking upwards and tensing, aching for Master to take him because he always wanted that.  If he could cling to Master, carried around by strong muscles that never tormented him, holding Master deeply inside himself all day, he would.  He would mold himself to Master’s body and never leave.  Well fucked, well loved, and never, ever hurting, ever again.

“Spike!”  Master’s shout was muffled as Master bit down hard on Spike’s shoulder, drawing blood.  The flare of pain was icy, streaking down his back to cling to the base of his spine, forcing his own orgasm out with a gasp and bitten off cry of  _Master._

Brightwhitehotstill instantly flooded through him, taking everything but the euphoria of Master’s pleasure away.  Spike hung there, suspended on clouds of peace, certain that he’d done what he was supposed to.  What he loved.

“One day,” Master said after he regained his breath.  “You’re going to tell me what you keep saying when you come.”

It wasn’t an order.  Master didn’t like giving orders—although he did, if he had to, or Spike begged enough—so Spike was safe to whisper whichever words he wanted to.  It gave him a secret, something warm to treasure when Master was gone and he was alone.  Spike didn’t like being alone.  The pain wasn’t as bad as it was before Master, he’d explained when directly asked, he just didn’t like being alone.  It was cold, then, and the walls were full of crying.

Master was heavy and warm against him, body calm and lax as he blanketed Spike from neck to ankle.  It was good, being smaller than Master.  It meant Master would cuddle him, sometimes, when they watched movies before they slept.  Spike liked being held.  He was warmest of all then.

“We should move.  There’s work for me—drywall fun!—and you’re going to Giles today.”  But Master did not move, so this was just talking, not doing, and Spike didn’t have to leave, yet.  “I want you to behave when you’re with Giles, okay?  Do what he tells you to.  Although  _why_  I’m asking you to behave when you can’t do anything but, I have no idea.”

Spike thought about that for a little.  He was still floating and it made him lax.  “Why do I have to go to Giles today?  Can I come with you, to where you work?”

Master was quiet before muttering, “Gotta remember to ask him about that.  You didn’t  _used_  to act like a little kid.”

“I’m not a little kid.”  He wasn’t, because little kids didn’t get erections or ejaculate, and he did both.  Besides, he didn’t  _look_  like a little kid.  He was too tall.

“No, you’re not.”  Master sounded sad and Spike didn’t like that, so he got up when Master did, hurrying over to prepare Master’s shower and then Master’s breakfast.  “Clothes,” Master reminded him as he sat down to eat, wrapped only in a towel.

The morning was a familiar routine, now, with everything set up the way Master liked it, which meant the way Spike liked it, too.  He didn’t  _need_  Master’s reminder, but he thought that maybe Master liked it, the way  _Spike_  did, so he always waited for the last possible moment before putting on his own clothes.  Then he remade the bed, since it was always wet after Master woke, and transferred the laundry to the dryer where it could sit all day, even though he wouldn’t be there to fold it and put it away.

“Ready?” Master asked, smiling at him.  He liked Master’s smiles, they were warm and soft like the blue blanket the girl Willow had given him.  “I’m going to be late tonight, they’ve got us working over time until after dark, today, so don’t worry if I’m not there until after seven, okay?  Just stay with Giles, and do what he says.”

Going to Giles’ was always a big deal, because Spike was allergic to the sun and Master didn’t like it when he started smoking and burning.  The one time he’d walked outside without thinking and burned his hand, Master had spent hours making sure that his hand was properly bandaged and he had enough to eat and he wasn’t in pain or bored.  It should have been fun, being fussed over like that, but Master had hurt the whole time, angry and blaming himself until Spike had hurt so much he was nearly in tears.

Master  _hated_  it when Spike cried.  He said he never knew what to do when another man was crying.  Then, sometimes, when he thought Spike was asleep, he’d cry a little too.

Running under the big black tarp was always annoying and he didn’t like being bundled into the trunk of Master’s car, but he went without a fuss, not even complaining that the air was thick and full of raven’s feathers.  Except. . . it wasn’t, really.  Spike tried to see in the darkness, looking for raven’s feathers or any kind of feathers.  He found a small sleeping bag, Master’s work tools, and a plastic bag full of candies, but there were no raven’s feathers.  So why was he totally certain that dark, stuffy places like this were full of raven’s feathers that would cut him to pieces if he moved?

Confused and a little disturbed, Spike blanked his face when Master opened the trunk.  He was supposed to tell Master everything, but he didn’t think Master would like this, and he didn’t want to make Master unhappy with him.  Maybe he would tell Giles.

“Oh, for—Xander it’s too early for this!”

Maybe not.

“Sorry, Giles,” Master said, helping Spike out of the car and into the house.  “I told you, today I  _can’t_  leave him at home.  My cousins are coming in this weekend, which means Mom is gonna stuff them downstairs.  I have to go to work and then convince them that since I, you know,  _pay rent_ , they can’t just put the juvenile delinquents—I mean, my cousins, down there with me.  Since I doubt I’ll be able to do that, then I have to figure out if I can afford a hotel for the weekend or something.”

Spike tried not to stare at Master, instead watching a bug try and fly into the clear glass of the window next to the door.  It was frosted, slightly, couldn’t the bug see that it wasn’t empty space?  And why was Master being sent away?  Master hadn’t been bad, didn’t need to be punished, and that was Master’s home.  Not anyone else’s.  Would Spike go with Master?

“Yes, yes, I remember.  Oh, come inside before he burns.”  Waving them inside, Giles headed towards the kitchen to make tea.  Giles always made tea.  Sometimes he put liquor in it, but Master wasn’t supposed to know about that.  Spike sat on the sofa and waited.  He could do that, now, without pain.  He was very proud of Master for giving him that.  “Tea?”

“No, thanks, I’ve got to run.”  Xander entered the kitchen with Giles and Spike pretended that he couldn’t hear their whispered conversation about regression and behavioral modification.  Whispers meant private, so Spike didn’t listen.  “I’ll be back as soon as I can tonight, okay?”

“I assume you’re not patrolling with us, then?  I’ll take him out if you aren’t back in time.  He probably needs the exercise.”

They both turned and looked at Spike, who tried very hard to be small and insignificant.  He didn’t like being a bug, even though Kane said he was all the time.  _Master_  didn’t think he was a bug, but it was hard not to be when they were staring at him so deliberately.

“Yeah, okay.  Just don’t let him get hurt?”

“Of course not.”  Giles sounded offended, but Spike knew that he was really amused, instead.  He wasn’t sure why he knew that, but Giles was often amused with Master.  “And Xander, my offer still stands—you and Spike are both welcome here for the weekend.”

“A buddy at work has a line on a really cheap apartment—that’s stop number four hundred and thirty five on today’s schedule—so we may crash there and just move all my stuff on Monday.  I’ll figure it out.”

Master looked so frazzled.  His hair wasn’t brushed very well.  Lines crinkled around his eyes, not the good kind that meant laughter, but lines of strain and worry.  Spike didn’t like those lines.  If he let himself, his chest would start burning and his muscles would tighten up painfully—but  _only_  if he let himself, because he didn’t have to hurt if he didn’t want to, not anymore.  Master said so.  But he didn’t know how to make Master not hurt without Master telling him that he was being clingy, or he was going to be even later for work.  So he didn’t do anything but wave when Master said good bye and left the apartment.

“Right then.”  Giles sat down at the table, pulling out paper and pens, a stack of books with titles like  _Behavior Modification: What it is and How to do it_ , and  _Your Wish Is My Command: Programming by Example_  next to him.  “I’ve done some more reading and Xander has indicated that your. . . behavior is changing.  So why don’t you tell me about the last few days?”

Talking to Giles was never simple.  He interrupted a lot and asked questions about everything Spike said.  But Master said to behave for Giles, so he told him everything.  Not  _everything_ , everything, though.  He never told Giles that Xander was really Master.

“Fascinating,” Giles said when the questions stopped.  “You seem to be almost regressing or reverting to a more. . . primitive state.  I wonder if that’s because of your professed level of pain diminishing, or because Xander treats you with nothing but kindness?  Or maybe a lingering association with Drusilla?  Perhaps something about you no longer struggling to remain free of Kane’s influence. . .  Oh, Spike, go and fix me some lunch, would you?  Ham with mustard, please.”

Master never ordered him like that, not anymore.  Master  _asked_ , unless it was for really important things, and then Master always explained why.  Not that Spike minded Giles ordering him—he just wasn’t Master. 

Fixing the requested sandwich, Spike seated himself on the floor at Giles’ feet.

“Very nice, Spike,” Giles praised, mouth full.  “You do remarkably well in the kitchen.  Odd, since I don’t believe you’d voluntarily been in a kitchen to cook things. . . well, probably in all your life.  Certainly your unlife.  Now, you say that your everyday level of pain is decreasing?”

Spike nodded.  “Xander says I don’t have to hurt when he does.”

“And that’s enough?”  Giles ate a few more bites, scribbling something down.  “So when you are alone and Xander is at work, you don’t hurt then?”

He considered that.  “Xander leaves things for me to do.  That helps, sometimes, if it hurts.”

“So it  _does_  still hurt?  Do you know when it hurts most?”  Giles finished the sandwich, absently reaching back to put the plates on the bar.  Spike followed the movement of his hand, not liking these questions.  “Are there any triggers?  Er, things that always make the pain start up?”

Were there?  Spike didn’t understand what Giles was asking him, but he struggled to answer anyway.  He could feel the pain starting, just a light fizz of hurt in his shoulders, and he didn’t want it.  Didn’t have to  _have_  it anymore, Master said he didn’t.  “I don’t know,” he said miserably.

“Well, what makes the pain go away?”

 _Master._   Spike shrugged, the pain moving down and out in a slow, steady wave.  “I don’t know.”

“But this isn’t the same pain as when you disobey an order, is it?”  Giles studied him then said, “Are you hurting now, Spike?”

“Yes.”

Giles nodded.  Had he expected the hurting?  Spike felt a flash of anger that Master’s friend had purposefully hurt him—then immediately discounted the thought.  Master said Giles was trying to help him, and Spike trusted Master implicitly.

“Spike, I want you to go and wash those dishes I just used.”  Hurrying to comply, Spike felt Giles’ eyes on him the entire time he washed, dried, and put the plate and utensils away.  It made his skin shiver.  “There,” Giles said when he sat back down.  “Did that make the pain stop?  You were obeying me.  Rather promptly, too.”

So Giles  _was_  trying to help!  Reassured, Spike titled his head and considered.  “No.  It felt good obeying,” he explained, “but the hurting, it’s still there.”  The fizz was more like boiling, now, rolls of pain simmering through him.

“And does this happen when Xander is there with you?”

“Sometimes.”  He suddenly remembered what Master did to make Spike feel better—he’d curl up on the sofa, Spike cradled in his lap and he’d let Spike ride him or stroke him off just so he’d have some kind of order to obey, and the pain would just melt away.  Disappearing into nothing but the bliss that came of making Master happy.

Something of that must have shown on his face because Giles removed his glasses and sighed heavily.  “And it has to be towards others, of course.  Very well.  Spike, please understand that I’m doing this only because it seems to be the only way.  Open my pants.”

“Yes, Sir,” Spike said, but it wasn’t Spike who opened the fastenings of Giles’ pants and withdrew the half-hard erection.  That was Jack.  Jack liked following these kinds of orders the way Spike was finding he  _didn’t_ —he liked making Master happy, but that was different.  Jack, however, remembered what Kane had done and remembered the pain of not following orders, so Jack was the one who starting stroking Giles’ erection, long and slow so he wouldn’t come too soon.

Spike knew that he was Jack and Jack was him.  He wasn’t a multiple personality, the way Giles would sometimes mutter on about.  But it was easier to call that slavish devotion ‘Jack’, since  _Spike_ , Master’s Spike, was different now.  It was like Xander being Master and Master being Xander.  Different but not.

“Tell me, Spike, does this make the pain stop?  I assure you, you’re making me feel very good.”

“Yes, Sir.”  The pain was fading, not quite gone but hard to be aware of when he felt like he was riding on the balloons Master had brought home two days ago after work.  Up to where the clouds were big fluffy cotton balls, dyed pink like cotton candy.  Master said they might go to the circus, if he was good, on Sunday.  “I like making you feel good, Sir.”

“Interesting.  You call me ‘sir’ when doing something sexual, but not at other times.”  Giles looked down to watch Spike stroke him off—his cock was still not quite fully hard.  “Is this helping at all?”

Spike nodded.  “I like making you feel good, Sir.”  He kept stroking, occasionally scraping his nails lightly around the slit—but Giles remained half-hard at best.  He transferred his attentions to Giles’ sac, hoping that stimulation would help.  _He_  was happy doing this for hours—at least, Jack was—but he could see Giles growing upset with himself.

He knew Master didn’t like to share him.  He knew that Master would be very upset if he found out about this, but. . . Spike  _hurt_.  And he didn’t like to see Giles look so frustrated and unhappy.  So he asked, “May I suck you, Sir?”

Giles studied him, the light reflecting off his glasses to making shattered rainbows in the air.  The glasses were very clean, because Giles polished them often, especially if Master and his friends were around.  “Yes.  But—but quickly, please.”

There was something in Giles’ voice, a note of discord and sadness, that Spike knew was not directed at him.  It made him feel sorry for Giles, and want to help him.  Rearing up onto his knees, he offered a comforting smile and concentrated on working every hot spot he could find as hard and as quickly as possible.  He bobbed and sucked and swallowed until Giles made a swallowed groaning sound.  Then Spike slid the head into his mouth so he could taste every drop.

Not as good as Master’s, older and thinner, but still good.  He licked Giles’ clean, too, before refastening his pants.  Giles’ pleasure didn’t send Spike spiraling into bliss the way Master’s did, but that was all right.  The pain was gone, soap bubbles popped into nothing, and that was what Giles had wanted—wasn’t it?

“Yes.  Well, then.  I. . . I won’t be doing that again, Spike.  I promise.”  Giles held his gaze for a moment, but then shook his head.  “And you truly don’t understand what I’m saying, do you?  Your mind  _is_  changing, and probably degenerating.  I think Willow and I are going to have to do that spell tonight.  Before Xander comes back.”

Spike just watched him, licking his lips.

“Yes, or course.”  Giles smiled at him, the way he sometimes smiled at Master and picked up one of the books.  “I want you to read this, and then tell me how you think you relate to it, all right?  Can you do that?”

“If you tell me to do it, I will.”

That must not have been the answer Giles wanted, since he sighed and took off his glasses, but Spike didn’t know what else to say.  So he picked up the book and returned to the sofa, wishing he had the blue blanket while he read.

“Willow and Buffy will be over soon,” Giles said quietly.  “Do you want to make them snacks, say around three thirty?”

Not an order.  A question.  Spike thought about it, and thought about Willow and Buffy.  “Yes.”

“Very good.  Tell me when you’re done with the book, then.”

Spike nodded and started reading.  It was a thick book and the words were large and not always understandable.  He'd have to read quickly to make sure he had enough time to make snacks for Master’s friends.


	6. Chapter 6

The minute Xander walked through the door, he knew something was wrong. It wasn’t Buffy’s immediate hello, or the way she moved to stand right in front of him. Or the way Willow followed, Tara a shadow to complete the blockade. Not even Giles’ worried expression gave it away, because Xander had known something was wrong long before that.

“What did you do!”

Shoving past his friends, Xander slid to his knees and pulled the shivering, whimpering ball of pain that was Spike into his lap. He’d been fine this morning. Xander  _knew_  that. Spike had been the closest thing to normal that his warped mind could allow—happy to serve, calm, and not hurting. Now he trembled, burrowing against Xander as he sought relief for the pain.

“Shhhh,” Xander soothed, mouth pressed to the cool skin of Spike’s neck. He knew what he had to do. He’d never seen Spike  _this_  agitated before, but dress rehearsal was still practice. He began to rock back and forth, trying to offer comfort. “Shhh, Spike, calm down.”

He hated this. Not because of what he was doing—it’d taken him awhile, but Xander got that he was helping Spike. That Spike wanted it, needed it, and it was the best thing for him when the pain got so bad that he couldn’t even acknowledge Xander, just wordlessly beg for relief. Xander understood that.

But it shouldn’t make him hard. Spike’s  _pain_  shouldn’t make him so hard. That’s what he hated.

Oblivious to his friend’s watchful eyes, Xander uncurled Spike’s hand and brought it rest on his groin. “Come on,” he murmured, still rocking Spike. “Come on, make me feel good. That’s right. Make me feel good, Spike.”

Gasping out a sob, Spike’s fingers found the best positions and began massaging. Xander was already half-hard, body tightening as Spike focused on pleasing him. He was  _sick_ to enjoy this, Xander knew that in the back of his mind. But Spike’s hands were magic, cool and confident through the denim of his jeans, stroking him perfectly. Xander thrust up into that hand, still crooning out reassurances.

“Xander? Um, maybe—”

“Shut up.”

Spike was mouthing his neck, now, wet, cool kisses that worried Xander more than anything else so far. “Hey, hey, Spike it’s okay. See? You’re making me feel good. Nod your head, Spike. Tell me you understand.”

Something aching creaked in Spike’s throat. His head slowly moved up and down once, mouth unmoving from the big muscle in Xander’s shoulder. He wasn’t worried about biting—Spike was hurting too badly to even  _contemplate_  biting, but maybe. . .

“Get me a knife.”

“What? No! Xander, you can’t do that!” Voices babbled above his head, each frightened protestation confirming his initial guess. Those voice were frightened, yes, and outraged, but also guilty as hell.

“A  _knife_ ,” he grated, his own hand working to find Spike’s cock through his pants and stroke it, providing a counternote of pleasure. “Now.”

“No, Xander—“

 _“Now!”_

In the following silence, Xander heard someone scrambling to do as he asked. Good.  _Dammit, Spike, what’d they do to you?_  “Shhh,” he repeated out loud. “Doesn’t that feel good? What you’re doing?”

Buffy knelt in his field of vision, knife glittering in her fist. “Do you have to do that in front of us?”

“Did you have to set him off in the first fucking place? Give me the knife, and if you don’t want to see what you’ve done, then get the fuck out.” Buffy’s eyes widened, but Xander didn’t care. Spike wasn’t calming down, no matter that Xander was fully erect, now, and fucking Spike’s cupped palm as much as his position allowed. Normally that would’ve provided  _some_  relief to a pain-wracked vampire, but Xander was pretty sure Spike wasn’t feeling anything of the kind.

Still glaring at Buffy, Xander let go of Spike’s waist and held out his hand. “Well?”

Her lips tightened. “Fine.” Xander had a split second to realize she wasn’t going to hand over the knife when cold, icy fire bit into his neck. Well below the artery, the cut itself was shallow, though it was already bleeding heavily.

Glaring, almost snarling in rage, Xander transferred Spike’s mouth from one side to the other. “Drink,” he murmured, not looking away from Buffy. “That’s right Spike, I’m telling you it’s okay. You have permission.”

A noise like a wail, high pitched and mewling, Spike attached himself to the bleeding cut and sucked.

Xander instantly gasped, hips bucking into Spike’s hand as the cold that burned turned into true fire, racing through his body. Spike was calming as he drank, grip relaxing enough that he could concentrate on pleasing Xander instead of just easing his own pain. Hands traveled over Xander’s groin and back, working expertly as Spike suckled. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured into Spike’s hair. “So good, baby.”

He was distantly aware of backs being turned and quiet conversations that included the word ‘gross’, but Xander was too lost to care. Spike was all around him, body writhing, grinding, moaning. His hand slid underneath Xander’s waist band with a murmur of pleasure, gripping Xander’s so hard cock.

“That’s right,” Xander moaned again, fucking into Spike’s welcoming fist. “That’s so good, that’s good. So good for me.”

A blood-warmed tongue probed the wound on his neck, delicately licking over it. Apparently determining that he’d taken enough, Spike laved the cut closed and then started _moving_. Over and down and oh, god, his pants were undone and that mouth was  _hot_  as it sank around his cock, sucking desperately as he bobbed up and down. Xander cried out, hands curling in Spike’s hair so tightly he felt a few strands pull free. He didn’t care. Spike didn’t care. The bad angle was irrelevant as Spike sucked and licked and teased until Xander gave in to the fear of seeing Spike hurting so badly and exploded into Spike’s mouth.

He was dressed and composed when the door to Giles’ apartment opened again. Spike was curled up in his lap, asleep, with his pants soaked. Xander didn’t bother feeling shame on his or Spike’s behalf—he was too  _angry_  for embarrassment.

His friends ranged themselves uncomfortably around the barrier the sofa made, shifting and shooting each other guilty, nervous looks. “Is he better?” Giles asked.

“What did you do?”

“If you need to go upstairs, Xander, then you’re of course—”

“What the fuck did you do to him!”

His shout echoed through the open door, curved courtyard tossing the sound right back. Willow flushed, paled, and looked like she was going to cry. Giles’ expression went severely foreboding, while Tara’s and Buffy’s remained mostly blank—mostly, because Buffy didn’t ever like being yelled at.  _Yeah? Fuck her, then. They_  hurt _him!_

“Willow and myself performed a spell an hour ago,” Giles told him in a clipped voice. “One to determine if the chip had been tampered with, physically or magically.”

“And?”

“And we hit defenses. Magical. Very strong. It—well, it triggered the chip into a full attack.”

* * *

 _A full attack. Which meant what, before was just a partial attack?_  Spike wouldn’t know or care if Xander squeezed him too tightly, but he still made sure not to clutch too firmly around Spike’s body as he repositioned him a little higher. Spike made sleepy noises, mouth closing on Xander’s neck and sucking the way a sleepy infant would, for comfort.

“Could you  _not_  let him do that while we’re here?” Buffy burst out. She rubbed her arms as if she were cold. “It’s ooky. And my Slayer-sense says ‘bad’.”

“How long?” Xander ignored Buffy’s discomfort. He could really care less how uncomfortable  _she_  was, if it meant Spike was calm and not hurting. Caressing Spike’s side and belly, Xander glared at Giles. “How long?”

“The spell didn’t take long at all. Giles and I were really careful, Xander, you know we don’t want to hurt Spike, but we needed to see if we could do something to  _help_  him and Giles said this might tell us what’s going on and we were careful, Xander, really really careful.”

Normally, tearful, babbling protestations like this would have Xander instantly melting and reassuring Willow that it was okay, whatever it was. He kept his eyes focused on Giles. “How. Long.”

“Xander, the spell  _wasn’t_  very long, honest—”

Giles’ hand on Willow’s shoulder stopped her. “Almost two hours.”

Two hours. The words did the booming, echoing thing inside Xander’s head. He knew he was holding Spike tightly enough to make a human squeak and gasp for air, and tightened his arms even more.  _Two_  hours.  _Spike was hurting for two hours and I wasn’t here to help him._  He swallowed down the reflexive rise of bile. “Did you try?”

“W-we all did,” Tara told him. She was holding Willow’s hand tightly, anxious eyes darting between him and her girlfriend—who looked like she was going to cry. Xander couldn’t really find it in him to be sorry, right then. “Giles, he tried the most. . . sexual, but we all tried, Xander. Nothing we did worked, though, and soon he just retreated.”

She looked so serious and worried, like Xander was going to do something irrevokable if someone didn’t intervene. She wasn’t wrong, either.  _They hurt him, and expect me to be nice about it? Thinking not a chance in hell._

“Okay. Okay.” Tara’s lip-chewing and the true fear in her eyes made Xander take a deep breath and re-stock a little. Just a little.  _I never should’ve left you here, Spike. I know what Willow’s like when she’s trying to find an answer and Giles. . ._  “So did you find anything? Other than how to send Spike into agony.”

Willow flinched, and Buffy immediately glared at him. “Hey! We were trying to  _help_  him.”

“No,  _you_  stood there and did shit. Actually, I take that back. You probably offered to stake him again, or called him a few of the names you think I don’t hear and he doesn’t understand.  _She_  wanted to get her magical-jollies off, and Giles—” Xander broke off, breathing heavily as he glared at Giles. He didn’t have anything to quickly shoot out to hurt Giles, something that would fall in the nice, neat little rant he was having. Oh, he had  _something_. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to even think about it, let alone accuse Giles of it without proof.

“What—”

“I do not—”

“—trying to  _help_ —”

“—he’s a  _vampire_ —”

“And somehow,” Xander said while the girls both defended themselves, “I really can’t see to bring myself to care. Giles? Answer the question.”

Giles had remained remarkably quiet. Too quiet. “We couldn’t penetrate the defenses. However, I do know what was used to block us, and there’s a way around it. A painless way. All it requires is the dark of the moon, two nights from now.”

“A way around it?” Indignation forgotten, Willow whirled to face Giles. “You didn’t tell me you knew a way around it! You said we had to wait and I wasn’t allowed to do anything else to try and help!”

 _That’s going a long way, Wills, to proving I’m exactly right._  He knew, dimly, that he was being unfair. That Willow really  _was_  just trying to help and none of them had expected magical defenses after Spike’s descriptions of what Kane was like and what they knew of the Initiative. But Spike was still sucking on his neck, making soft, intermittent moaning noises. His body shook lightly in Xander’s arms; he was having nightmares, again. So being fair to Willow? Not a priority right then.

“Because anything we tried to do made it worse, Willow. I said he needed Xander, and I was right. If Xander agrees, we’ll do the other spell Sunday night and see if there’s a way to  _painlessly_  try and help him. But I misjudged Spike’s need for Xander, and anything we try after this point must be done in his presence.”

As apologies went, that one pretty much sucked. Xander made sure Giles knew it, too. “Uh huh. Now, let me get something straight. I’ve had a really long day, Giles, and only just managed to figure out where the hell I’m going to be sleeping tonight—”

“Xander, you know you’re welcome—”

“ _Not a chance in hell_ ,” Xander snarled, then forced himself to smile and continue as pleasantly as he could. “Anyway. I just found an apartment, that doesn’t have any furniture, because I need to take Spike somewhere safe. I never expected him to get hurt here, or for my  _friends_  to try something behind my back or to put me in a position where it was either leave Spike in agony, or have public sex. Gotta say, that was probably the  _highlight_  of my otherwise craptacular day. And now? I’m going. Don’t try and ask me where, cause right now, I’m not interested in telling  _any_  of you where I’m gonna live.”

Climbing to his feet with Spike still on his lap should’ve been difficult. It didn’t make him feel any better when it was. Spike was amazingly light. Too light, since Xander knew just how dense his muscles were. The way he instinctively wrapped himself around Xander’s body was helpful, but the only needing one arm tucked under his ass, holding him up like a little kid that was just unusually tall? Not reassuring in the least.

His friends parted before him. Buffy and Willow were still angry, muttering under their breaths about how ungrateful he was.  _Yeah, yeah, I’m ungrateful and not worthy. Boo-fucking-hoo._  Tara looked sad, but Giles—no. He didn’t want to think about that.

Fortunately for Xander’s decreased driving ability—Spike was still out, but wasn’t interested in being let go—the new apartment wasn’t that far away. Grateful the flood light on the porch was out, Xander carried Spike upstairs and into the apartment in the basement he was now renting. It wasn’t huge, or in that great shape, but it beat the basement hands down, and it was cheap enough that he didn’t need to get a roommate. He wasn’t sure he could  _have_  a roommate. Forget about explaining vampires. How about the obviously mentally-damaged man who required sex to stay calm and healthy?

Not really likely, that.

The apartment  _did_  come with a few appliances, including a refrigerator and a microwave. Thankfully—he really didn’t want to know what his mom would say if his cousins found blood-bags. Xander had already done a pass through the basement, removing the most personal items and anything he thought would be useful until he go through and actually box the rest up. It made for a cluttered floor in an otherwise empty apartment, but he was pretty sure all the essentials were there.

Placing Spike on the air-mattress and covering him with some blankets, Xander heated up a mug of blood. He’d need to eat himself, soon, but. . . not yet.

“Hey, Spike. You wanna wake up for me?”

Spike immediately stirred, nose twitching as he scented his supper.  _At least, I think that’s what he’s smelling. Is there more mildew here?_  His eyes blinked open slowly, obviously taking a while to focus. “Master?” he asked, voice rough and thready.

 _Oh, god._  “No, Spike. Xander.”

His eyebrows drew down at that, but Spike still nodded. “Xander.” He didn’t say anything else after it. The way he was looking at Xander—adoration and deep trust—meant he didn’t need to.


	7. Spike Vignette

Spike wrapped arms around his raised knees. He didn't understand. The questions were so hungry, impatient, like little birds creeling for a mother that was too busy hunting worms to come back, yet. Spike glanced down at himself, just in case - no, no worms. Sometimes his skin felt wrong, twisted and pulpy, just like - but no. No worms. Good. He didn't know how to be a bird's mother, though gliding through the air had appeal. He'd go into the sunshine, maybe, and just hover there until even his feathers warmed.

Except Master said sunlight was bad. It burned him, just like crosses and the way Ma - _Xander's_ eyes went so hot and hard when he was angry. He hadn't ever been that angry at Spike before, but it was easy to remembered the way he'd stumped and fumed the second night in their new place. He remembered, too, sitting just like this, as if he could ball himself up into invisibility and save himself from the anger that came off Xander in waves, turning his skin redder and redder until his eyes watered. But Xander knew, because Xander was so good to him. He'd stopped pacing and sat down next to Spike, beckoning him into his arms, safe against his body. Spike was always warm, then. Better than warm, really. In Xander's arms everything was good. The dark thoughts, the ones that felt heavy and black, shaded with weird memories like snarling at a man taller and broader even than Xander, holding him like Xander was a puppy, by the scruff of his neck. Spike didn't like those memories, of people who Xander didn't tell him about, with long dark hair and eyes that saw through walls, through flesh and bone into the deepest parts of people. Spike didn't _want_ those thoughts. He wanted Xander.

The questions teased him the way the dark thoughts did, but Xander had said to answer them, so Spike struggled to do so. He hated that Xander wasn't there with him, but in a way, he was almost glad. Xander has said to trust this stranger, to answer truthfully, and Spike wasn't sure he could do that with Xander present. Even though he ached inside, and would until Xander came home.

"I think," he said slowly. "Not like you do, maybe. Not like Xander does, in lines that jump, sometimes. But I don't just. . . " He shook his head, wanting to put the images of the murky grey of the sea into something verbal. "It's there, I just can't get to it." That was what Xander said, most of the time. Especially when things would just appear in Spike's head, falling free of his mouth before he could catch the words and stuff them back inside. He was never prepared for it, but he knew that look on Xander's face -- stunned and surprised and wary, distancing himself before he lavished praise and affection on Spike.

"Xander says I'm getting better," he continued doggedly. "He says I'm hurting less." Spike knew he was hurting less, he'd told Xander so, and Xander's Giles, but he wasn't always sure that was because he was getting _better_ or because he had Xander. Xander was. . . "Xander is everything." He wouldn't say the word that he wasn't supposed to say. He wasn't going to shame Xander that way, to make him start and look guilty around his eyes. Spike hated that look.

Spike glanced up, trying to gage the response to his words. Confusion, of course. Only Xander understood him, or even really tried to. The others were so interested in 'fixing' him that they didn't often listen, minds doing a million things at once while they pretended to care. Except that wasn't fair -- even though Xander was angry with them, Spike knew that he still _loved_ them. The way Spike. . .

"It's not what I think Xander is," he said finally. "It's that I'm Xander's. Nothing else matters."

He lowered his eyes, then, waiting. Xander would be home soon, and he'd find out if he answered correctly or not. Because even though he'd been told to say the truth, and he had - the truth was very, very rarely the correct answer.


	8. Calling - future-verse vignette

It became a sense. Something floating through the air, like perfume too faint to identify, but still familiar, or a strain of music you  _knew_  but still couldn’t identify, lingering and teasing until it could drive you mad from constant searching. It would tickle him no matter where he was, a  _something_  out of the corner of his eye that told him  _go home, go home now_.

“Hey, Carlos!”

“Yeah man?” Carlos was short and stocky, his handle-bar mustache the source of constant battling between him and Mrs. Carlos, Juanita, much to the amusement of the rest of the crew. Juanita ran payroll with an iron fist, and was generally adored by the menfolk. Particularly when she occasionally hosted lunches on site. “Oh, aye, I know that look. You want off?”

“You mind? I know, I’ve been doing this a lot, but—”

Carlos looked over his shoulder for a moment, eyes shiny-black and full of a compassion at odds with the attitude he usually kept, then nodded and clapped his back. “Yeah, man, off with you. I keep you here, and Juanita’ll be on me like white on rice, y’know?”

That made Xander blink. Er, no he didn’t know. “Um, Juantia? Why would she, um, be upset with you?”

Laughing always flashed those amazingly bright white teeth, startling against dark skin and darker mustache. “Go, man, take care of him. I’ll cover. Just make sure you get him better, all right? We’re both gettin’ tired of seeing you so sad. Get him healthy so he can take care of you, for a bit.”

Driving home in a daze, Xander tired to feel upset that apparently the entire crew knew that he was a gay. And had a lover, who was sick. It took work to manufacture the expected panic, mostly because of Carlos’ blazé attitude. Xander had a loved one to take care of, and he would. Nothing more to be said about it.

His speed increased as he got closer and closer to home, pressure building behind his eyes and against his eardrums. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he didn’t respond to the summons. Whether the pressure to go, to help, to comfort would push through the confines of his skin in a rupture of physical pain and damage.

Then again, letting it reach that point did more than offer the potential of physical pain and Xander never ignored that feeling, not once, and he knew he never would. The thought of abandoning it was. . .

“Hey,” he called as soon as the door was unlocked and opened the barest inch. “Where are you?” He didn’t need the vocal direction, the tugging in his mind directing him to the bedroom long before the tiny whimper confirmed it. Sliding onto the bed next to the curled up lump there, Xander began a slow, soothing stroke from shoulder over each swell and dip of bicep and elbow, forearm and hand, over clenched fingers and down a long, lean flank, before returning to the shoulder once again. “How’d it start?” he murmured.

Curls rustled as they twitched back and forth. He didn’t know.

“Okay. Wanna come to me?”

There was the briefest hesitation before this child-like man wrapped around him tighter than any limpet, nose pressing hard into his collarbone as Spike inhaled breath after breath of the only surcease he had. Xander ignored the pain, knowing these smaller twinges wouldn’t be felt in the overwhelming wave of Spike’s current pain. Stroking over head and flushed, feverish neck, down over a shirt damp from sweat he shouldn’t exude, Xander cuddled his love closer and murmured the words that made Spike’s actions into obedience, desired, and pleasing, to try and erase his hurts.

“I’m here,” Xander said over and over. “I’m here, Spike.”

“I—I didn’t call,” Spike said after a while. The words were felt more than heard, lips mashed tight against his chest and the hesitant voice burring through his rib cage. “Wouldn’t.”

“You don’t need to.” Gradually, the sickly warmth faded down to a vampire’s usual absorbing temperature and Spike’s rigid body relaxed. “I’m here. I’m already here.”

A mixed blessing tangled on the bed, falling into a child’s sleep—deep and dreamless and so utterly trusting that it nearly broke Xander’s heart. Mixed, because Spike was hurting more and more often, had been ever since Giles’ damned spell and the first hints of Kane’s search for his missing property. But a blessing, because no longer did Spike need the manufactured relief of sexually pleasing someone. Now all he needed was Xander.


End file.
